


let my imagination run away with you gladly

by imperiousheiress



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Comedy of Errors, Domestic, Enthusiastic Consent, Established Relationship, Eventual Communication, Eventual Smut, First Time, Fluff and Humor, Lack of Communication, M/M, Oral Sex, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Virgin Aziraphale (Good Omens), Virgin Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-07-28 10:01:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20062195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperiousheiress/pseuds/imperiousheiress
Summary: He figures it will be rather simple. All he has to do is send the right signal, and Crowley should be able to pick up on what he wants no problem. He’s a demon, after all. Seduction (not that that’s what this is) is something demons know all about.And then, they can proceed straight to the kind of ethereal, mind-blowing sex the likes of which has never been seen by either heaven or hell.It’s rather a perfect plan, if he says so himself.(Or, five times Aziraphale tries to seduce Crowley and one time he stops trying so hard.)





	1. Chapter 1

It begins on a day like any other.

Of course, it’s something that’s crossed Aziraphale’s mind more than once. Recently, certainly, but a number of times over the last couple millennia as well. But it’s never hit him quite so hard before as it does within the span of that moment.

He’s sitting atop the sofa in their living room, in _ their _ cottage (that thought still makes a spark of joy surge through him every time he has it) with a book - one of his old favorites that he’d been filled rather suddenly with an urge to re-enjoy. He’s just getting to the most interesting part, which is perhaps why he doesn’t notice when Crowley emerges from the bedroom, freshly awoken from his afternoon nap. 

Not until, that is, a pair of arms snakes around his shoulders from behind. Followed by a warm breath at his neck before a pair of soft lips attach themselves to the very same spot. He inhales sharply.

_ “Oh.” _

Aziraphale sets his book down before he drops it, placing it securely in his lap. He brings one of his newly freed hands up to rest against Crowley’s cheek, feeling the tickle of fine hairs against his nose. 

“Hello, dear,” he says, fingers weaving through that same familiar red hair.

“Mmh,” says Crowley.

Chuckling softly, Aziraphale turns his head, holding Crowley steady as he tries his best to land a kiss on his lips. From this angle, he only gets a patch of cheek, and his second attempt yields only the corner of his mouth. 

“Hold on,” Crowley murmurs, the words slurring together in a drowsy fashion. 

A wave of disappointment washes over Aziraphale when Crowley slips out of his hold, disappearing from the back of the sofa. It is easily subdued a moment later, however, when Crowley reappears right in front of him.

Aziraphale’s breath catches at the sight of him. His hair is delightfully mussed, sticking up more on one side of his head than the other. He is dressed in nothing more than a loose-fitting black Queen t-shirt and boxer shorts dotted with little cartoonish snakes. 

With a sleepy noise, he plops himself contentedly in Aziraphale’s lap, draping both legs across his thighs. Aziraphale automatically wraps a steadying arm around his back. Before he can ask what’s going on, Crowley’s hands come to rest on either side of his neck and then he’s kissing him. Properly, this time.

Aziraphale melts into it, sighing into Crowley’s mouth. His grip tightens on the back of his shirt, and his other hand finds his hip.

It’s like an approaching ambulance siren.

It starts in the back of his mind, with a rhythm he barely registers as his own heartbeat fluttering against his ribcage. And then, the warmth in his cheeks flows down through the rest of his body, growing gradually in temperature. Until, suddenly, he feels like his skin is on _ fire _. The fabric of Crowley’s shirt twists in his white-knuckled grip as he clutches with a new desperation, holding him as close as he can, skin sparking wherever their bodies meet, even underneath his clothes. Crowley’s mouth opens with delicious ease under his own, taking every swipe of his tongue and giving underneath his every press forward.

And then, with sudden, white-hot clarity, the realization blindsides him.

He wants Crowley. _ All of him _ . He _ aches _ for him.

Sex with Crowley is a concept that has occurred to him more than once since they shared their first kiss months- nearly a _ year _ ago in the days following the Apocalypse that hadn’t come to pass. If he’s being entirely transparent, the idea of sex with Crowley had entered his thoughts a number of times in the centuries before that as well. But, up until this very moment, he’d been perfectly content with what they already had. Every touch, no matter how brief, every kiss, every night spent in their shared bed, always touching under the covers - whether that was Crowley passed out curled into Aziraphale’s side while he read or both of them asleep, wrapped around each other. _ Everything _. This cottage, this life that they’ve built. Together.

He’d been certain he couldn’t want for anything more. That is, until now.

Never before has he felt this physical desire in a manner that’s so _ carnal _ . The intensity of it almost scares him. He’s dizzy with it. He’s ready to push Crowley off his lap and press him into the cushions right here and now. He can just imagine it; it would be so _ easy- _

Crowley presses one last, sweet, closed-mouth kiss to his lips and pulls away. Aziraphale hardly registers what’s happening, and then his lap is empty and he’s blinking at the space where Crowley was just a moment before.

Irrationally, he feels a rush of panic, thinking that somehow Crowley had caught on to the direction his thoughts had been spiraling. They’d been so _ loud _ inside his own head. But then he realizes that’s an impossibility; of course it is. 

Crowley only yawns, slack-jawed, and twists his neck before muttering, “Gonna water th’ plants.”

He sits stock still as Crowley turns and saunters away, eyes involuntarily following the curve of his ass as he walks. 

It’s not until he hears the familiar sound of the kitchen sink running as Crowley fills the plant mister that Aziraphale feels like he can breathe again.

_ “Fuck.” _

Aziraphale decides to give it a couple days. He thinks (_ hopes _) that if he ignores it then, just maybe, it might go away.

It does not go away. 

As soon as he comes to the conclusion that this is a problem he’s not going to be able to turn a blind eye to, he falls back on the next best thing he can think of in order to find a solution. Research.

Actually, it had first and foremost occurred to him to approach Crowley about the subject directly. He had nearly done it, too. Had walked right into the room where Crowley had been staring rather intently at his laptop. (He’d said something earlier about rearranging the reservations for a private ballroom in London so that both a nearby senior citizens’ bingo night and a local ska dance club’s meeting would be set to take place at the same time, causing great inconvenience for all involved.) And then, just as he’d been about to open his mouth, an endless string of doubts had invaded his mind, each one making itself known rather loudly all at the same time.

After all, they’d never actually had a conversation regarding sex. The closest they’d ever come to discussing it was when, that first night of sharing a bed, Crowley’s hands had dipped a little too close to his waistband some hours into an endless exchange of kisses and, already overwhelmed by emotion, Aziraphale had gently grabbed and redirected them. No words had been said at all, and Crowley hadn’t gotten so close to touching him again - that night or since. 

What if Crowley had only acted in the first place back then because he’d thought it was what Aziraphale wanted and he actually has no personal interest in sex? It’s a ritual that is so very human, after all. Even worse, what if he _ is _ interested in sex - just not _ with Aziraphale? _

Besides that, Aziraphale hadn’t thoroughly considered what he was actually going to say. Somehow, coming right out with, _ “Let’s have sex,” _didn’t seem quite right. It was… impersonal. Not to mention abrupt and not at all romantic.

So, after barging in on Crowley unannounced while he’d been in the middle of something, Aziraphale had frozen up. He’d muttered some immaterial question about marmalade that he still isn’t sure Crowley even answered, and then he’d fled.

So. _ Research _.

Research, specifically, about how to signal his desire for sex to Crowley without having to come straight out and say it. 

That was the conclusion he’d come to once he’d regrouped after his first failed attempt. He figures it will be rather simple. All he has to do is send the right signal, and Crowley should be able to pick up on what he wants no problem. He’s a demon, after all. Seduction (not that that’s what _ this _ is) is something demons know all about. 

And then, they can proceed straight to the kind of ethereal, mind-blowing sex the likes of which has never been seen by either heaven or hell.

It’s rather a perfect plan, if he says so himself.

The results of said research are what lead him to his first plan of action. 

Compared to some of the other suggestions he’d read about, this one had seemed relatively simple. Multiple sources had talked about the importance of atmosphere and “setting the mood.” Some of the articles he’d perused had gone into more detail than others, although a number of those had made recommendations that, in his admittedly inexperienced opinion, seemed excessive.

One thing that had remained rather consistent, however, was _ candles _. 

This is a concept that Aziraphale is fairly confident in his grasp over. He’s been to enough restaurants to have observed on a number of occasions, the waitstaff lighting a single candle in the middle of the table where a couple is seated. He’s actually been on the receiving end of such a gesture before, in a few of the establishments that he and Crowley have repeatedly patronized. He’d just never given it much thought. He hadn’t realized until they’d formally begun their more intimate relationship and it had begun to happen more regularly (this, he suspects, is thanks to Crowley’s influence) how romantic the addition of something so simple as a candle could be. 

It has something to do with warmth and the soft glow emitted by the little flame, he thinks. The love he has for Crowley feels much the same way, although the candle reflects only an infinitesimal fraction of that emotion at most.

No matter the reason behind it, all he has to do is try to recreate that same romantic atmosphere at home. Easy.

The perfect opportunity comes when Crowley leaves for a couple hours on one of his semi-regular visits to Anathema and Newt’s shared home. A number of weeks ago, he had begun playing some kind of card game with them. One that uses some kind of black and white deck rather than a normal assortment of cards and about which he’d been firmly told, _ “You wouldn’t get anything out of it, angel. Really. It’s something down below came up with.” _ Some day, he still sincerely hopes to join them. For now, however, he is just happy to see Crowley so happy to find an activity that he truly enjoys. Besides, he spends plenty of time - sometimes accompanied by Crowley, others not - with the future _ Mr. and Mrs. Device _.

And on this entirely regular Thursday evening, it gives him just the chance he needs to enact his plan. As soon as he hears the Bentley pull out of the drive and tear full-speed down the road, Aziraphale rushes to pull down a box that he’d hidden carefully atop one of the many bookcases dotting their cottage nearly a week ago.

He’d bought the candles from a craft store the last time they’d been to the city for a grocery run. Making an excuse about popping into the nearby bookstore, he’d left Crowley waiting in the Bentley while he’d run off to go pick them up. (He may have also _ actually _ popped into the bookstore, as well. After all, it had only been down the block. There was no need to let such a good opportunity go to waste.) From there, it had taken a little subterfuge and a couple of covert miracles to get the box into the Bentley’s trunk and then the house. 

He knows that he has an hour and a half, give or take. Crowley is hardly ever gone from the house - gone from _ him _ \- for more than an hour, and, with the way he drives, even the trip to Tadfield is alarmingly short. It takes him nearly a full hour of that time to get things in place; this time is in part due to the fact that he puts several candles down just to end up repositioning them a handful of minutes later. With a few, he does this a couple different times, until finally everything is just where he wants it.

He gets perhaps a quarter of the way through lighting the candles by hand when he realizes it would be much wiser to wait. After all, he doesn’t want them all burning down to nothing before Crowley returns home. It takes another five minutes or so for him to dash about putting them all back out.

After that, there’s nothing left to do but wait.

He stands near the door, hands on his hips and foot tapping along with the ticking of the clock as he surveys his work.

It’s strange to see the blinds closed. He can’t ever remember a time they haven’t been open since they moved in. But, he’d decided that, if he wants the light from the candles to have the most effect possible, they need to be surrounded by complete darkness. Although the sun has long since fallen behind the horizon, he’s still used to seeing the faint glow of moonlight seeping through the large picture windows that fill nearly every wall of the cottage. Most nights here are clear enough for it. And if that’s because of a little miraculous interference, well, no one has to know about that.

The coffee table in front of the sofa is draped in an attractive runner made of a dark red velour. Set atop that are two identical glasses of an almost equally red wine (A drink which he’d read somewhere, long ago, supposedly has aphrodisiacal properties.) exactly between which is placed one of the room’s many candles. A white one, for contrast.

That had been part of the delay when it had come to deciding where each candle should go. His trip to the craft store had been rather rushed, since he’d wanted to avoid dawdling lest he incur Crowley’s suspicion. And there had been _ such _ a large collection of colors, and they had all looked so _ good _. So, he might have gotten a little carried away. Which means he’d filled his handheld shop basket over capacity with an assortment of colors which, in retrospect, had wildly clashed with one another from the very beginning, and he’s not sure how exactly he’d thought getting them home would remedy that. He’d given up entirely on a pumpkin orange candle that had absolutely refused to look decent no matter what he’d put it next to.

Ah, well. Hopefully, once all the lights are off the colors will be barely visible anyway. And, once his plan succeeds, he certainly won’t be thinking about it. He doesn’t figure he’ll be thinking about much at all.

He’s still standing there ten minutes later, unconsciously wringing his hands together in front of him, when he hears the tell-tale sound of the Bentley roaring up the driveway, the faint thumping of the bass from whatever Queen song currently accompanies it audible even from inside. 

Aziraphale startles. He can’t help the little sound of surprise that escapes his lips and he jerks into action, trotting across the floor. His hip bumps the coffee table and the two wine glasses rattle ominously for just a second before settling. He seats himself on the sofa with a little more care, and takes a deep breath.

With a wave of his hand, all the candles around him light in succession, a cascade of lights starting at one end of the room and ending on the other. A second flick of his wrist plunges him into darkness, just as the doorknob starts to turn.

The front door swings open. For a moment, nothing happens.

“Angel?” Crowley’s voice is hesitant. 

Aziraphale can’t see what his face is doing. In fact, he can hardly see anything at all beyond the shape of Crowley’s silhouette in the doorway. It’s been quite a number of years since candlelight was the standard and sole method of interior illumination and, well, Aziraphale had seemingly somewhat forgotten how… _ ineffective _ it is.

“In here, dearest!” he calls into the darkness, trying to sound as reassuring as possible

“Is- Is everything alright?”

“Oh, yes! Perfectly.”

Crowley hums a noncommittal note and shuts the door. As soon as it closes behind him, Aziraphale realizes he truly _ can’t _ see him. At all. No matter how hard he tries to squint past the glare from the candle directly in front of him.

Crowley must see him, however, because after another beat of silence, he can hear the sound of footsteps across the polished wood floor, followed by, “Oh, _ there _ you are. What in the _ world _ is-”

His voice stops abruptly, replaced by startled choking and a sharp smack, and then, finally, a loud, hard _ thud _. 

“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaims at the same time that Crowley hisses, “_ Fuck!” _

In an instant, Aziraphale is standing, and the lights flicker suddenly back on. The first thing he sees is Crowley splayed out on the floor where he’s groaning quietly to himself. Aziraphale skirts around the edge of the coffee table, dashing to his side. 

“Crowley! Oh, my dear, are you alright?” he asks, kneeling next to Crowley’s splayed form, one hand coming to rest gingerly against his back.

“Peachy,” Crowley grumbles. He rolls himself into a sitting position and Aziraphale gasps.

His sunglasses are barely hanging on to his face. One lens is entirely shattered, with just a couple fragments of glass left clinging to the wire frames. The other has one large crack running from top to bottom and a dozen more spidering off in all directions. On top of that, there is a round, red mark blooming clearly in the center of his forehead. 

Just on the other side of his leg, one of the candles is tipped on its side, spilling hot wax over the floor. The flame still flickers on the wick and Aziraphale snuffs it - and all the others - out with a careless miracle.

Crowley’s face scrunches up, which would be rather endearing under different circumstances, and he winces, raising a tentative hand to his forehead. Aziraphale reaches out slowly and gently lifts his hopelessly ruined glasses from his face, setting them aside. Beautiful golden eyes blink back at him.

“I’m _ so _ sorry. Oh, your _ glasses _-”

“_ Pssh _,” Crowley scoffs, waving a hand between them. “S’fine. Got plenty more where that came from.”

“Are you quite sure? Were you hurt anywhere else-?”

“_ Yeah _ . Yeah, yeah. All fine,” Crowley says flippantly. “Not sure I can say the same about the umbrella stand.” He gestures vaguely over his shoulder at said umbrella stand, which has been toppled - apparently, when he’d tripped over it on his way in. “Anyway, what- what in the _ world _ was all _ that _ about?”

“I just thought that- that I could _ surprise _ you.”

“You certainly succeeded in that.”

“It was meant to be _ romantic _ _!_ _"_

Aziraphale throws his hands up, and when they fall back against his lap, they ball into fists. His face is burning.

Crowley chuckles, and he brings his palm to rest against Aziraphale’s cheek, warm and soft.

“Look at me, angel.” He does. “While I don’t hate the thought, maybe next time stick to the Ritz? I think I hit the wall. Or maybe it was the bookshelf.”

Aziraphale offers him a smile that’s still one part embarrassed and takes his face in both hands.

“Oh, do come here,” he murmurs fondly, pulling Crowley close enough to press a gentle kiss against his forehead. When he leans back, just far enough to look him in the eye once more, the red mark has faded entirely. “It’s not the Ritz, but I do have a couple glasses of wine already poured. It would be a shame to let them go to waste.”

Crowley lights up.

“Now _ that _ sounds lovely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> much thanks to my dearest beta and favorite person who always supports me (even if she hasn't watched good omens (yet))
> 
> find me on [ tumblr! ](http://imperiousheiress.tumblr.com)[]()


	2. Chapter 2

Even after his first plan had, admittedly, been met with failure, Aziraphale refuses to be deterred.

The next morning, he cleans up the candles, puts them all back in the box they came from, and miracles said box straight into the nearest landfill. Then he buckles down and consults his research once more. 

Fortunately, the internet is a nearly bottomless well of information. There are plenty of other potential solutions to his problem he’d come across that had seemed as though they might be effective. He’d sincerely hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but now that it has, he’s glad to have options. 

His second attempt requires no preparation beforehand, unlike the first. Much to his excitement, that means he doesn’t have to wait at all. So, he doesn’t. As soon as he’s sure of what he’s doing, he pulls on his coat and goes to tell Crowley that he’s off.

He slips out the glass door that slides open on the side of the cottage that leads almost straight into the garden. Crowley is just there, between the african daisies and sage. He’s bent nearly in half, fiddling with something on the ground and muttering under his breath. For a moment, Aziraphale just watches. His eyes are fixed on the curve of Crowley’s ass in those devilishly tight black skinny jeans that he wears like a second skin. His hips sway even now, when he’s just barely shifting his weight.

Aziraphale clears his throat. Crowley stops and spins around, fixing him with a sunny smile.

“Angel,” he greets, sounding pleased.

“I just wanted to let you know I was heading out. I wanted to drop by that bakery - the one with all the sweets. Do you-? Everything in it is so _ yellow _, oh, what’s that one called…?”

“Oh,” Crowley says. He frowns, swaying almost unconsciously closer. “Yeah, I know the one.”

“Ah! Well, good, then.”

“D’you want me to give you a ride? I can always come back to this later.” He gestures over his shoulder. “It’s no problem.”

There is a streak of dirt smudged rather attractively across Crowley’s cheekbone, just below his eye. Aziraphale finds it somewhat distracting.

“Hmm? Oh, no. No, it’s fine. I’m just going to pop on over.”

“You’re sure?” Crowley hesitates. “Do you even like that place? Aren’t you always saying their biscuits are too sweet?”

“Yes, but-” Aziraphale blinks and clears his throat. “I, er- quite enjoy their breads.”

“Right.” Crowley leans his weight casually into one hip. He glances away. “Well. Don’t be gone too long.”

“Of course not,” Aziraphale murmurs. His heart lurches in his chest to even consider it. Crowley’s game nights are perhaps the longest consecutive amount of time they are ever parted, these days. After all, they had chosen to share a roof for the express purpose of not having to be away from each other. They’d agreed that they’d spent quite enough time doing that already over the years.

Crowley swallows and some of the tension bleeds visibly out of his shoulders. The corners of his mouth quirk up in the sweetest of smiles.

“Oh, do come here. You’ve got-” 

Aziraphale reaches out and strokes his thumb across the line of dark dirt painting Crowley’s cheek. Crowley kisses him, and he imagines what it would be like to push him into the dirt, how his soil-stained handprints might look against Aziraphale’s pale skin.

“Not too long,” he repeats against Crowley’s lips.

Aziraphale doesn’t go to the too-yellow bakery with the too-sweet biscuits.

His actual destination is the payphone across the street. 

In his perusal of almost everything the internet has to offer, Aziraphale had drawn information for his cause from a vast assortment of sources. He’d noticed, then, that many of the more popular methods of modern seduction utilize texting. The only real problem he’d seen there is the fact that he and Crowley never text each other. They couldn’t even if they wanted to - Crowley is the only one of them with a mobile phone. But, well, Aziraphale figures that the original usage of the telephone when it had been invented was to make calls, so there’s no reason that shouldn’t work just as well.

He couldn’t very well have called Crowley from the landline in the cottage, and if he’d tried to go to the bookshop without him, it’s likely he would have insisted on coming along. On the rare occasions in which Aziraphale has returned to visit his shop, Crowley has nearly always accompanied him. He imagines Crowley feels just as much nostalgia over it as he does, although he’d likely never admit to it.

So, that had left him with really only the option to make the call from a public line. Simple enough.

The biggest drawback of this part of the plan was, firstly, that it meant leaving the house for a while and, secondly, that he couldn’t just make the call right away and return straight home. It would be extremely odd of him to ring immediately after leaving and Crowley would be immediately suspicious, and possibly quite annoyed.

Which is why, when he pops into town, he doesn’t aim straight for the bakery or the phone, but rather for an inconspicuous location near the lush green park just over a mile away. He tries, first, to bide his time reading and, when that proves ineffective thanks to the nervous heartbeat in his temples that makes it nigh impossible to concentrate, he starts walking. He does a loop of the park, wanders the nearby streets, gets himself turned around just for a tick, and then sighs in relief when he turns an only vaguely familiar corner and sees the fence of the park once more. By that point it’s been nearly half an hour, which seems like a reasonable amount of time for him to have completed his alleged bakery trip. More importantly, he feels as if he might burst from nerves if he waits a moment longer, and so, he starts up the road for the payphone.

Much to his chagrin, the booth is occupied when he arrives.

Standing inside is a younger man in an argyle vest that might be a sensible bit of clothing if it weren’t a rather blinding lime green. Aziraphale hovers a polite distance outside the door, trying to wait as patiently as possible. But, after another five minutes, the man still hasn’t left and, _ really,_ how long does it take to have one phone conversation? How long had he been here even _ before _ Aziraphale arrived?

Another minute later, the man returns the phone to its cradle loudly and abruptly shortly after he remembers his dog is waiting for him at home and very suddenly wants nothing more than to cuddle with her. 

Aziraphale takes his place in the booth in a heartbeat, nearly knocking into him as they pass close to each other. He dials Crowley’s mobile number from memory and waits, focusing on continuing to breathe as his fingers tremble against the receiver.

It rings for a long few moments and then, finally, he hears his favorite voice.

“Hey, this is Antony Crowley-”

“Yes! Hello, love-”

“-You know what to do. Do it with style.”

_ Beeeep_.

Aziraphale pulls the phone away from his face and frowns down at it. Probably a moment too late to stop it taking a message, he rests it back in the cradle. Well. He hadn’t considered the possibility that Crowley just… wouldn’t answer. Then again, he _ had _ been tending the garden when Aziraphale had left, and if he’s still outside it’s more than likely he doesn’t even have his phone with him. That would certainly put a damper on things. He hesitates.

Of course, this is a strange phone. Crowley wouldn’t recognize the number, so he’d have no reason to expect it was Aziraphale calling. Perhaps- 

Aziraphale pulls another coin from midair and dials the same number again. There’s still no guarantee Crowley will pick up, but he has to at least give it a try. If this doesn’t end up working, his whole dreadful morning will have been for nothing. And it certainly won’t work if he doesn’t make another go at it.

The phone starts its ringing again. And then, after only a couple rings, it goes silent. Aziraphale’s heart plummets. He waits to hear that dreaded recording once again, the one that means he’s not going to be answered. He hears nothing but more silence. And then, hesitantly-

“Aziraphale?”

“Oh, Crowley! Yes, it’s me. Hello, my love.”

“Is everything alright? Where are you?” 

“Yes, quite. It’s all tickety-boo,” Aziraphale rushes. “I’m in town still. I just- I just had something I wanted to say.”

“Oh,” Crowley says. It sounds somewhat like a question. “Go on, then.”

Aziraphale inhales, thinking through the words he’d been planning to say after reading a number of examples that had all been part of a list titled simply _ Text Dirty_. Many of said examples had been startlingly obscene, enough so to make Aziraphale blush. This one had been tame in comparison.

“Well. I’ve been thinking about you,” he starts, head raised high, free hand tugging at his bowtie. “I can’t wait to get home. I want to do _ things _ with you. Things I can’t say.”

Crowley doesn’t say anything and Aziraphale can’t stop the triumphant grin tugging at his lips. He can just see him now: face flushed prettily, the tips of his ears glowing nearly as red as his hair like they always do when he gets flustered, gorgeous golden eyes wide. 

Aziraphale can already feel the excitement flooding his system. This is surely it. Crowley can’t possibly continue to remain unaware of his intentions now. 

“What do you mean.”

“W-What?”

“Aziraphale. You can tell me anything. You _ know _ that,” Crowley says, voice soft enough to drive a spike straight into Aziraphale’s heart. “Whatever it is, you can tell me. I like doing things with you. Look- A-Are you _ sure _ everything’s alright? Do you need me to come get you?”

“No,” Aziraphale sighs. “No, that won’t be necessary.”

“I can. It’s no problem-”

“Really, my dear, it’s _ fine_.”

Crowley goes quiet and Aziraphale swallows, realizing belatedly that he may have been a bit overly snappish. This is not going at all how it was supposed to. He sighs.

“I’m sorry,” he says. He could really do without the guilt churning uncomfortably in his stomach. “I’ll be home soon.”

“Ok,” Crowley says quietly, and Aziraphale would give almost anything to be able to see his face right now. He clears his throat loudly and then doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, finally, he speaks up again, voice gentle. “I love you.” 

Aziraphale’s breath catches and his face erupts into a smile so large it hurts. He knows it’s true, has known it for a long time, but even so, Crowley has only actually said it a handful of times in the months since they were first able to admit such things to each other aloud. Hearing it never fails to make his heart soar.

“I love you, too,” he says, equally gentle. "_So _ much.”

“Yeah,” Crowley says, voice audibly cracking. “See you soon.”

And then, the line goes dead.

Aziraphale exits the phone booth much more frustrated than he had been before but, at the same time, unable to be too upset about it.

Fifteen minutes later, he’s stepping through the door to the cottage with a box of disgustingly sweet biscuits balanced in both hands. Crowley lights up when he sees it and, to Aziraphale’s relief, their earlier phone conversation doesn’t come up again.


	3. Chapter 3

Clearly, more direct action is needed.

Aziraphale waits to try again just long enough to be fairly certain that the disastrous phone call incident is no longer fresh in Crowley’s mind. Although he hadn’t brought it up after, he _ had _ continued to cast strange looks in Aziraphale’s direction for the rest of the day.

While Crowley busies himself with the dishes left over from their supper, Aziraphale sneaks out into the lavish master bathroom attached to their bedroom. It is undoubtedly the least used room in the entire cottage, but since neither of them had ever thought of a reason it would become anything less than nice, it still looks just as pristine as if it had the day they moved in. 

There is a separate bathtub and shower, as well as the other usual amenities - a long counter with a sink, over which sits a mirror of equal length; the toilet, which is in a second, smaller room off to the side; a closet just big enough to hold a person.

Ignoring everything else, Aziraphale crosses the room to the bathtub, rolling his sleeves up as he goes so he can get straight to work. 

If he were to follow the basis for this attempt to the letter, he would wait until Crowley was taking a shower, at which point Aziraphale would join him. From there, things would escalate naturally until they were wound together on the bed in the other room, skin-to-skin.

It makes him shiver to even imagine it. 

The only flaw in this plan he’d been able to determine when first reading this particular suggestion was a small one: Crowley doesn’t take showers.

Not with any regularity. As far as Aziraphale can remember, he’s only indulged in a couple since they’ve moved into the cottage. On one memorable occasion, after they’d gotten into an argument – the kind that had begun with something insignificant, yet had gotten them both unnecessarily heated – Crowley had slammed the bathroom door and shut himself inside. A minute later, Aziraphale had heard the water start, followed by a wave of steam rolling out from the space under the door. He’d waited in the bedroom, strung like an over-tuned piano string, for nearly an hour until, finally, Crowley had emerged with his hair still wet, followed by a rush of hot air. Aziraphale had held him close, hands against his water-warm skin, and whispered apologies into the curve of his neck.

That was the last time Aziraphale could recall him showering. Fortunately, there hadn’t been a repeat of that particular series of events since.

However, while it’s true that _ Crowley’s _ washing habits are irregular and unreliable, _ Aziraphale’s _ aren’t so much. Over time, he has come to discover that he is actually rather fond of baths.

Obviously he has no real need for them, just as Crowley has no need for showers, but he rather enjoys the process. There’s something indescribably relaxing about letting one’s body soak in warm water, suspended for just a little while away from the rest of the world, weightless. And, in recent years, humans have only continued to invent ways to make baths even more enjoyable. 

Of course, wine and oils and salts have been a part of the process all over the world (at least for the wealthy) for millennia. But now, there are bubble bars, and soap petals shaped like flowers, and – Aziraphale’s _ personal _favorite – bath bombs. All wonderful, curious things, that make it so marvelously convenient to vastly improve the entire experience.

He’d tried to make it a point to treat himself to a bath on a fairly regular basis, but over the course of the last eleven years, he hadn’t managed to squeeze them in nearly as often as he would have preferred. Since retiring, however, they’ve become a much more regular occurrence. So, he knows baths. He’s rather confident in his ability to put together a good one, which makes him think that, perhaps, a bath will end up working even better for his purposes than a shower.

After all, all of the most important components are the same between both – the water, the closeness, the requirement for full nudity. 

He forces himself to focus on the task at hand before his thoughts can run too far in that _ particular _ direction. While the water runs, he slips back into the bedroom to exchange his normal clothes for his pillowy-soft white bathrobe. Once the tub is nearly full, he starts to add in everything it needs, topping it all off, after stopping the faucet, with a fragrant jasmine bath bomb that he’d picked out specially for this occasion. 

Watching it fizz and melt into the water and feeling rather satisfied with himself, Aziraphale smiles.

“Crowley?” he calls into the house. “Come in here would you?”

He gets no answer for a long minute and his smile fades. He’s just about to call out again when the silence is broken by the sound of footsteps in the bedroom.

“Angel? What’s going on? Did something happen?”

Aziraphale turns and is surprised to see Crowley standing in the doorway, wielding what appears to be their saucepan. He lowers it hesitantly when he sees Aziraphale standing alone, clearly unharmed, and his frown turns quizzical. 

“No, no,” Aziraphale says quickly, holding out a placating hand. “Nothing like that.”

“Alright. Then why in _ hell’s name _-”

“I’d like you to join me.” 

“Join you?” Crowley’s eyes drift to the full tub and he freezes. “In _ that? _”

Aziraphale nods and beams up at him. His hands wring together in front of his robe.

Crowley straightens up and drops the saucepan carefully to the carpeted bedroom floor behind him. He holds to the doorframe instead.

“I don’t know, is it- I-I mean… Would we even both _ fit?”_

He regards the bathtub with suspicion. Aziraphale starts to open his mouth. And then stops.

He recalls, with sudden clarity, a dark, dank room smelling of sulphur. An ivory porcelain tub. A glass wall with dozens of demons pressing against the other side, all calling for his - for _ Crowley’s _ \- demise. 

He gasps out loud.

“Oh! What was I _ thinking_,” he says. Crowley blinks at him. “In hell, they- Your _ trial _-”

“Oh, no, no, _ no_.” Realization flickers across Crowley’s face, and he waves his hands between them, taking a step closer. “Angel, it’s fine. I-I wasn’t even-”

“Crowley, I’m so sorry. Really, how could I have been such a fool?”

“Oh, come on. You’re not,” Crowley scoffs. “Here, look.”

He starts hastily unbuttoning his shirt. It takes Aziraphale too long of a moment to realize what he’s doing and why. When he does, though, he can feel the blood pooling in his cheeks.

“You really don’t have to,” he says quietly, half hoping he won’t be heard as he watches Crowley wiggle the rest of the way out of his shirt, tugging one sleeve free when it gets caught around his wrist.

“It’s _ fine_.” His insistence is punctuated by the sound of his jeans zipper. His nose wrinkles in a way that can’t really be called anything other than cute. “How- How bad could it be?”

Aziraphale can’t help his snort of amusement as he watches Crowley hop like he’s in a church while he tries to peel his jeans away from his skin. Admittedly, the way Aziraphale had seen this playing out had been a little more steamy and a little less- _ whatever _ this has turned into. Still, there is a warmth in his chest that only Crowley has ever been able to put there and that no one can ever take away. Not even Crowley, even when he glares up at him.

“For hell’s sake,” he grumbles. Then, with a snap of his fingers, his jeans disappear, along with whatever had been underneath.

Aziraphale allows himself one long, indulgent look before his eyes return to Crowley’s face. He’s gorgeous, of _ course _ he is, and Aziraphale is pleased to find he’s not the only one a little flustered. The tips of Crowley’s ears are practically glowing and there is a faint dusting of pink across his cheekbones.

_ Heaven_, Aziraphale almost wants to forget all of this. Just throw all of the pretext out the window, walk forward, and take a bite out of him. He can feel how badly he wants him down through his bones.

On the other hand, here they are with Crowley ready to dive headfirst into something he’s unsure – possibly even frightened – of. But he’s willing to try. Because of Aziraphale. _ For _ Aziraphale. Because he loves him. It doesn’t matter that he hardly ever says it, because right now he’s screaming it with every molecule of his occultish being.

“Come here,” Aziraphale says around a laugh, a sound of pure joy that he just can’t contain; not that he’d ever want to. 

He stands next to the tub and Crowley sidles up next to him. He’s still glancing over the edge of it, cautiously watching the faintly pink water swirl as the bath bomb produces the last of its fizz.

“You’re sure it’s not holy water?” he asks lightly, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Positive.”

Crowley dips the very tip of one finger into the water, which ripples out from his touch, and then pulls it out quickly again. When it clearly doesn’t burn, he squints at it for a second more before humming approvingly.

As soon as he seems satisfied, Aziraphale undoes the tie at the front of his fluffy robe and slips out of it, setting it down in a heap atop the counter with uncharacteristic carelessness. He steps into the tub one foot at a time and then turns so he’s looking at Crowley, standing with pleasantly tepid water lapping nearly to his knees. 

He holds both hands out, palms up, and slowly, Crowley takes them. 

“There you are,” he says quietly, drawing Crowley closer.

He’s expecting some kind of snappish response, but it never comes. His eyes remain closely focused on Crowley’s face. The way he looks down at his feet as he carefully raises one leg over the edge of the tub and sets it down again in the water. He pauses for a second, brow furrowing in concentration, before he repeats the process a second time with his other leg. 

Aziraphale waits until he looks a bit steadier before starting to lower himself into the tub. He lets go of one of Crowley’s hands to grip the edge for balance but lets Crowley squeeze the other as he follows his lead. Likely because he is unused to the process, Crowley’s descent is slightly less than graceful. He sloshes some water out of the tub as he sits just a little too heavily, a hiss escaping his lips. When he finally gets settled, he lets go of Aziraphale’s hand and pulls his legs up to his chest, hands gripping his knees.

Aziraphale huffs a laugh and crosses his own legs, waving Crowley forward.

“Come here,” he says once more, all fond exasperation. “Turn around.”

For a moment, Crowley looks as if he’s going to stay stubbornly where he is. But, in a matter of seconds he’s shuffling awkwardly, all lankly limbs as he rolls over and then squirms closer until he’s leaning back against Aziraphale, legs outstretched.

Aziraphale can feel the way his shoulders relax against his chest as he tucks his head underneath Aziraphale’s chin.

“Better?” he murmurs.

Crowley hums and reaches back for Aziraphale’s hands, twining their fingers together and guiding his arms forward until they’re wrapped around his middle. He nuzzles back even more into Aziraphale, just continuing to hold his hands after he settles.

“Oh! One more thing.”

Aziraphale’s nose scrunches up. For a moment, there is only silence. And then, slowly, the sound of Beethoven’s _ Piano Concerto No. 3 in C minor, Op. 37: II. Largo _ drifts in from the other room.

“‘S not _ terrible_,” Crowley mutters. Completely convincingly.

Aziraphale just chuckles and holds him tighter.

This isn’t at all what he’d had planned for the night’s activities. It is, however, incredibly nice. On top of that, it seems that Crowley might be open to joining him for his baths more often.

So, really, it’s hard to count this as a failure.


	4. Chapter 4

The waiting, Aziraphale thinks, is the hardest part.

One would think he’d be used to it by now. Six thousand years hadn’t passed in the blink of an eye, after all. A handful of days should be nothing. But the key difference, he thinks, is the sense of expectation. Waiting for something specific always seems to make each hour last twice as long.

It doesn’t help that, in between, Aziraphale’s agitation is only continuing to grow.

Every time Crowley slips into a loose-fitting tanktop to work in the garden, or pillows his head in Aziraphale’s lap while he’s reading, or catches him around the waist unexpectedly to pull him into a kiss, Aziraphale can feel himself going just a little crazier. He can’t help but think of what they could be doing instead. Every unangelic thing he wants to do to him. With him.

Having been to hell, he can confidently say that they could learn a thing or two from this kind of torture.

The package arrives on a Thursday morning, while Crowley just so happens to be out getting groceries. Aziraphale sees the modestly sized, plain, brown, rectangular box on the doorstep and he knows right away exactly what it is.

He scoops it up, ignoring whatever else might have come in the mail, and retreats with it back into the bedroom. Ever impatient, he forgoes the usual means in favor of miracling it open. He pulls aside some wrinkled brown packing paper and pulls out the single item in the box, releasing it from its crinkly plastic confines.

Aziraphale grins as he lays the garment gingerly out flat atop the bedspread. He runs a hand over the fine, delicate fabric, and can feel the anticipation thrumming through his veins.

Taking a page out of Crowley’s book, he miracles his clothes off (and folded neatly atop his dresser, he’s not going to risk anything happening to them) so he can shimmy into his new outfit. As soon as he gets it on, he hurries into the bathroom and stands in front of the wall-length mirror, admiring his reflection.

He hasn’t worn many dresses in his time, and certainly none quite like this, but it does look rather nice, if he says so himself. It’s a lacy babydoll nightgown in a light cornflower blue that does wonderful things to bring out his eyes. It’s semi translucent without being entirely see-through and also _ very _ short – a little bit more so than he’d expected from the pictures he’d seen – coming down to just barely cover his thighs. That’s a bit different, admittedly. His hands keep itching to pull it down even though he knows it has nowhere to go.

It fits well, considering, although it’s a bit looser in the… upper regions. He thinks about modifying his figure just a touch in order to better fill it out, but ultimately decides against it. He thinks he might find that rather unpleasant and it doesn’t seem too terribly important. After all, he’s actually incredibly comfortable as is. A little breezy, perhaps, but that’s something he could get used to. Besides, it’s not as if he’s ever going to be wearing this outside of, well, _ this room _ . And _ certainly _ not outside of the house.

He’s considering whether or not to take off his socks - he’d kept them on, not wanting to walk across the cold tile floor without them - when he hears the front door open. Startling slightly, he turns off the light and steps back out into the bedroom. Apparently he’d been more distracted than he thought; he hadn’t even heard the Bentley pull up. 

“I’m home,” Crowley calls. Aziraphale quickly tidies up the remnants of his package with a wave of his hand and fusses with his dress. He somewhat wishes he were still in front of the mirror so he could check one last time to make sure he looks absolutely perfect. “Angel?”

“Yes, dearest! In the bedroom,” Aziraphale answers. He glances around before seating himself carefully on the edge of the bed. “Actually, could you come here, please? I have something to show you.”

“Sure. Let me just put the ice cream away.”

Aziraphale is nearly bouncing in his seat. He crosses one leg over the other and arranges the flowing fabric across his lap. Then, unsatisfied with his current pose, he switches his legs and settles in once more. He’s still messing with his outfit, readjusting the thin straps that lie over his shoulders, when Crowley steps through the doorway.

“Hey, what’s going-”

He stops, one hand braced on the doorframe, hip cocked. He hasn’t even taken his glasses off yet.

“So? What do you think?” Aziraphale asks.

“Um,” says Crowley.

He doesn’t move or say anything more for a long moment. Aziraphale stands up and does a slow turn in the middle of the room. The fabric of his blue skirt flutters out around him.

“Well?”

“Um, y-yeah!” Crowley says, voice pitching up a step. He clears his throat. “Yeah, looks _ great_. I-I mean, you always look fantastic, of course you do.”

Aziraphale is pleased to see the scarlet blush soaking into Crowley’s cheeks. He sways forward, trying to mimic that same charming way Crowley usually moves (although maybe not to the same degree) and stops just in front of him, reaching forward between them to lift his glasses away. He folds them and tucks them carefully into Crowley’s coat pocket, blinking up at him as innocently as possible.

“There, that’s better.”

Crowley hums distractedly in response and Aziraphale can hardly contain his glee.

Personally, he’d very much enjoyed looking at himself in this dress, but he’d still been worried that Crowley wouldn’t. Admittedly, he’d been nervous about all of this even while he’d been planning it out and perusing his bevy of options online. After all, he’s manufactured a scenario in which he’s made himself quite vulnerable and, although he knows Crowley would never intentionally hurt him, he can’t help feeling exposed.

“So, you like it?” he asks, fingertips dancing along the lace at the bottom edge of his skirt. He stretches up on his stockinged toes, leaning just a fraction closer as Crowley’s tongue darts out to swipe across his bottom lip.

“Hm? Oh. Oh, _ yeah_,” he says, audibly straining for it to come across casually. Finally, he pulls his eyes away to meet Aziraphale’s expectant gaze. He clears his throat. “But is it comfortable?”

Aziraphale blinks. He rocks back onto his heels.

“Comfortable.”

“Yeah, sure. You know.” Crowley gestures vaguely with one hand, carefully aiming out to his side so he doesn’t smack either of them in their closeness. “You look great, but does it, y’know, feel alright? If you’re not- I want you to be _ comfortable_.”

“Well, it’s- Yes, actually,” Aziraphale stutters, trying to redirect his thoughts from the path they’d been running down full tilt and turn them down this new, rather unexpected, road. “It is. Somewhat surprisingly so, if I’m being honest.”

Crowley nods. He doesn’t quite take a step back, but he is leaning away slightly, hands tucked half into his shallow pockets.

“Good,” he says. “That’s- I’m glad.”

“Yes, but that isn’t really the main _ point_,” Aziraphale says with a little huff. 

And, really, does he actually have to _ explain _ this? He’s pouting, he knows he is, as much as he’s trying not too. He’s positive it’s not an altogether attractive expression.

“Yes, of course. Of _ course_,” Crowley agrees distractedly, voice reedy. He darts forward and presses a barely-there kiss against Aziraphale’s temple. “Oh, I think I hear the, uh- the _ ficus_. Shaking? I should go. Need to- to make sure it’s not misbehaving.”

Then, in the blink of an eye, he’s gone, backing out the door and disappearing to elsewhere in the cottage.

Aziraphale doesn’t move for a long moment, staring out the open doorway where Crowley had been standing just a second ago. Sighing loudly, he steps back and sits heavily on the edge of the bed, propping his chin in his hands. 

He’d really been sure about this one – he’d thought it was almost certain to succeed. For a moment, it had seemed as though it would, too. But somehow, for whatever reason, Crowley hadn’t taken the bait. He’d truly felt good about this, but now he’s not so sure that feeling was warranted. He plays back the last couple minutes in his mind, trying to figure out what, exactly went wrong. Where _ he _ went wrong. But he can’t pinpoint anything. 

Besides, of course, the conclusion – which he refuses to even let himself start to consider – that Crowley simply… doesn’t want him in that way.

He fists his hands in the sheer fabric of his skirt and frowns, glancing down at himself. He can’t help but feel, suddenly, just a little ridiculous. With a wave of his hand, he changes back into what he’d been wearing before, not even bothering to get up to do it. 

The dress appears atop the bed next to him, folded neatly. He picks it up carefully and takes it to the closet, tucking it far enough back on one of the shelves that he prays he will be able to forget all about it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this might possibly be my favorite chapter of this story ♡  
also just so you know the next update will be the last! thanks to everyone who has stuck around so far

In hindsight, Aziraphale was doomed to fail from the start. 

It’s really solely thanks to desperation that he ever came to falling this low in the first place. He’d read about this but had never  _ really _ planned to stoop so low except as his very last resort. But, now that he’s here, there’s no turning back. He’s put too much time and effort into this to just give up without even making a proper attempt.  _ Hours _ , in fact.

He’d done most of his learning and practicing in the middle of the night while Crowley was sleeping, in most cases going nearly until dawn. Of course, he’s not naive enough to think he’s managed to work entirely unnoticed. He knows firsthand that Crowley can often be an incredibly restless sleeper. There must have been at least a couple times in the last week or so that he woke up to find Aziraphale absent from their room. Although, through some miracle beyond his own doing, at no point had Crowley either caught him or brought it up. 

Even so, when he’d asked Crowley to meet him at the bookshop later that afternoon with a delicately constructed lie about walking to dinner, Aziraphale had just  _ known _ he must have already been suspicious about it. Even so, he’d readily agreed with little other than a beat of hesitation and a raised eyebrow. That, perhaps more than anything, had made Aziraphale keen to succeed this time around. Crowley really is too good to him sometimes. He just wants to take care of him in return.

That's what he's thinking about while he's standing in the never-used flat above the bookshop and watching himself in the mirror that hadn’t been there two hours ago for the umpteenth time. No matter what he does, he hasn't ever gotten his body to move in the same way as the woman in the videos he'd watched. Despite her many reassurances that  _ anyone _ could learn the dances she'd demonstrated, Aziraphale thinks it's quite possible angels are exempt from such a statement. He wishes, not for the first time, that the gavotte had just  _ not _ fallen out of style.

When he misses a beat, he thinks it probably has less to do with the way he’s picturing Crowley writhing under his hands as he runs them over bare skin and more to do with his innate lack of ability. 

He huffs out a sigh and then inhales deeply, shaking his hands out at his sides as he tries to get himself to relax. That had been one of the key pieces of advice the woman from the videos had given repeatedly.  _ Relax and have fun _ . It won’t be long before Crowley arrives, and surely if he hasn’t gotten it down by now, there’s no amount of practice he can do in the next ten minutes or so that will save him. At this point, he can only work with what he’s got.

He is rather proud of the outfit he’s chosen for the occasion. It’s modeled after the kinds of things he’d seen the woman wear. She had advocated for simplicity and, really, it had worked  _ very _ well for her. Which is why Aziraphale had aimed for the same – he’s picked out a too-loose white shirt, the top and bottom buttons of which he’s left undone, and black shorts that are short and tight enough that they may as well have come straight out of Crowley’s wardrobe. He’d been a little hesitant about them at first, but they have proven to actually be incredibly comfortable.

Completely indecent for normal company, of course, but comfortable. Enough so that he might consider wearing them around the house more often in the future. (Especially if Crowley reacts to them the way he hopes.)

His absolute favorite part, however, is probably the white stockings that come up nearly to his knee. He hasn’t worn anything like them in a long time, although they’d once been a staple of fashion around the 18th century. Of course, they’re different than they were, but he’d enjoyed them then and he still enjoys them now. 

He sways his hips back and forth in the mirror and tries a “body roll,” a move that he’d taken a long time to get comfortable with and still isn’t sure he’s mastered. Still, he can’t help but smile. Before today, he hadn’t actually tried any of this in his current outfit, but he already looks and feels much looser than he ever has before while practicing. Something about the way his shirt flutters around his thighs makes all of his movements appear infinitely less stiff than they had in a vest and trousers. 

Maybe this will work out after all. 

He shakes his head, silently chiding himself. This  _ has _ to work. After this, he’s nearly out of options. Options that aren’t, that is, just walking up to Crowley and asking politely if he would  _ please _ throw him against the nearest flat surface and have his way with him.

Of course, if his dancing on his own doesn’t cut it the way he plans, he can always just… dance closer. Insert himself into Crowley’s space until he’s unable to keep his hands off. Surely,  _ surely _ then he would  _ have _ to get the point.

He jumps when he hears the unmistakable jangling of the bell over the door. And then he grins. He’s already hurrying out the door and towards the stairs when he hears the hesitant call of, “Angel?”

“Coming, dear!”

Aziraphale stops just at the top of the stairs, taking a moment to tamp down his excitement. He descends quickly but carefully, one hand on the railing to keep him from losing his balance on his slippery stockinged feet. Crowley is still standing just in the front of the shop, not far from the doorway. He’s tucking his glasses into his coat pocket and squinting at the shades still covering the windows when Aziraphale stops in front of him.

“So, what’s this about? Door’s locked, windows are covered, did you even open-  _ oh. _ ”

Crowley stops, sucking in a sharp breath as he finally turns to look at him. His gaze travels slowly up Aziraphale’s body and then back down again, and Aziraphale feels warm down to the bone with satisfaction.

“That’s new.”

“Yes, quite,” Aziraphale hums, smiling as he places his hands on his hips. 

“Alright, I’ll bite. What’s all this, then?” Crowley asks with visible interest, gesturing in Aziraphale’s general direction. His mouth quirks into the beginnings of a smile.

“Well, you see-” Aziraphale starts. It’s not his intention, but he can’t stop his hands from falling to wring together in front of him. “I’ve been teaching myself to dance. And, well- Well, there’s not much to say. I suppose I just have to show you.”

Aziraphale waves his hand and the music he’d selected for the occasion starts to play from the radio across the room. He’s not incredibly fond of it and he certainly wouldn’t take up listening to in his free time. But, it’s got a slow, heavy beat and it will do for his purposes at the moment.

He waits for a moment, counting silently in his mind, and then starts to saunter closer to Crowley, just as he’d practiced. He doesn’t get much farther than that.

When he stops just a couple feet away and twists, bending one knee and getting ready to roll his hips, Crowley chuckles. The sound catches him so off-guard that he freezes, stomach lurching low in his abdomen.

Crowley shakes his head and Aziraphale straightens up, hugging his arms to himself and ducking his head. He can already feel the blush creeping up his neck like hellfire.

“Angel, you can’t dance to  _ this _ ,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale looks up, blinking at him, just in time to catch the raising of his hand before he snaps his fingers and the music changes abruptly.

“What-? Why-?” Aziraphale stutters over the upbeat notes of a trumpet, disappointment melting into confusion. “Is this  _ jazz? ” _

Crowley scoffs, rolling his eyes. The effect of both is rather diminished by the shining grin stretching his face.

He still manages to sound offended when he says, “It’s  _ Sinatra _ , angel. Oh, come  _ on _ .”

And then, without warning, he steps straight into Aziraphale’s space, scooping up his right hand in his left and letting the other settle on his waist. 

“I hope you know how to be led,” he says, too cheekily for his own good. 

Without waiting for a response, he steps forward and Aziraphale stumbles to keep up. Not missing a beat, Crowley releases Aziraphale’s waist just long enough to guide his hand (which has, up until now, been tangled in the front of Crowley’s shirt, holding on out of desperation and a lack of anywhere better to go) to rest atop his shoulder.

When he moves sideways, he nearly leaves Aziraphale behind – he only rushes to follow at the last second, nicking Crowley’s toe with his foot in the process. Suddenly, he’s starting to have a much greater appreciation for the fact that he’d chosen not to wear any shoes. He huffs loudly.

In response to his obvious frustration, Crowley’s expression softens. He dips his face closer to Aziraphale’s, warm breath ghosting across his ear.

“Just relax,” he hums. The closeness of it sends a pleasant shiver down Aziraphale’s spine. “Follow my lead.” 

He pulls away, keeping himself anchored to Aziraphale with a tight hold on his hand, just to pull him in close again, drawing him into a graceful spin. Aziraphale does exactly what Crowley asked. He follows his lead. He lets himself be moved, relaxing into Crowley’s rhythm as Frank Sinatra’s smooth crooning serenades them both.

_ And even when I’m old and gray, I’m gonna feel the way I do today. _

_ 'Cause you make me feel so young. _

Aziraphale finds himself relaxing more and more. He’s even starting to keep up, although there are still a few missteps, a few errant brushes of knee against pant when Crowley zigs and Aziraphale zags. 

“Where in the  _ world _ did you even learn this?” he asks after one such incident, his feigned annoyance unable to cover his genuine curiosity.

“It’s the  _ foxtrot _ , angel,” says Crowley. As if that explains anything at all. 

It doesn’t really matter. The next time Crowley swings him out and then pulls him close again, he catches the tail end of his humming. It blends in seamlessly with the music from the radio, perfectly melodic and sweeter, perhaps, than the original. And he hasn’t stopped smiling. Not for a second.

His expression is infectious and Aziraphale almost forgets all about why they were here in the first place.

The song comes to an end, punctuated by a jazzy little riff and, for a split second, Aziraphale is actually disappointed. Only for a second, though. To his surprise, Sinatra’s voice quickly breaks through the silence once more, starting in on a second track. It seems like it shouldn’t be possible, but Crowley’s eyes undoubtedly shine a little bit brighter than they already had been.

He pulls Aziraphale somehow even closer, so close that their chests brush as they dance to this new rhythm - similar to the last, but slightly slower. When Crowley spins him again, this time he doesn’t let Aziraphale turn fully back around. Instead, he pulls a graceful, complicated move that has him wrapping both arms around Aziraphale’s middle without ever letting go of his hand. Crowley holds him close from behind, just swaying slowly to the music, chin slotting perfectly against his shoulder. Aziraphale feels the softest brush of lips against his neck and he lets out a contented hum.

Before he has a chance to turn his head and steal a proper kiss, Crowley is untwisting them once more and pulling Aziraphale flush against him. Where before they had been travelling gradually but constantly across the wooden floor, now they are barely moving. They sway together from side to side. Crowley is still smiling that too tender smile, even as his mouth moves, forming the shapes of the song’s lyrics.

_ All of me _ , he sings silently alongside Sinatra’s voice.  _ Come on get all of me. Can’t you see? I’m just a mess without you. _

Aziraphale smiles too, unable to suppress it even if he’d wanted to. The hand on Crowley’s shoulder sneaks up to cup his cheek and stays there. Crowley leans into it; his skin is warm and thrums with an overwhelming feeling of  _ love _ in its purest, rawest form. So strong and so loud that touching him is almost too much. It takes nothing for Aziraphale to tilt his head up and capture his lips in a kiss.

Just as the third song starts, Crowley is finishing his last spin. Finally, he drops his hands from the proper dancing position he’s been maintaining this entire time, letting them both fall around Aziraphale’s waist. In response, Aziraphale slips both arms around Crowley’s neck, keeping him close. 

They sway in sync, foreheads pressed together, tilting forwards every once in a while to share sweet kisses until long after darkness has descended upon the sky outside the windows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> much thanks to my dearest beta and favorite person who always supports me (even if she hasn't watched good omens (yet))
> 
> find me on [ tumblr! ](http://imperiousheiress.tumblr.com)[]()


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! Thank you so much to everyone who's read this far, whether you were here from the beginning or hopped on in the middle. I hope it's worth the wait. ♡

From the very start of the morning, Aziraphale should have suspected something was wrong. 

Actually, the signs had been there even since last night, he just hadn’t known to look for them. Crowley had gone off to bed early, leaving him still at the dinner table with a fleeting kiss on the temple and a murmured explanation. Not wanting to disturb his rest, Aziraphale had chosen to forego joining him in favor of settling on the couch with a book. He’d popped in only once, just briefly, unable to resist checking in – at which point, he’d noticed that Crowley hadn’t even bothered to change out of his sweater before passing out atop the sheets.

That was unusual, sure, but Aziraphale hadn’t given it much more thought beyond that. Soon, though, he will be wishing that he’d paid a bit more attention. 

Crowley doesn’t reemerge from the bedroom until it’s already after noon, at which point he shuffles slowly past Aziraphale and straight into the kitchen. He’s still wearing the very same gray sweater he’d fallen asleep in, although he’s pulled on a fresh pair of jeans. Aziraphale puts down the book he’s been working on – the second of the night – and just listens. After a moment, he hears the distinct sound of the coffee maker running. 

A long-stretched minute later, Crowley reappears with his favorite mug cradled carefully in both hands, holding it close to his face like he needs the steam rising off it in order to breathe. He takes a seat. Not curling into Aziraphale’s side atop the sofa, as he’d hoped, but in the armchair. The one that he usually only utilizes when Aziraphale is either gone or otherwise occupied.

“Good morning, dearest,” Aziraphale greets, putting his book aside to smile across at him. He gets only a distracted hum in return before Crowley takes a loud sip from his mug. He doesn’t look up.

“Would you like anything more for breakfast?” Aziraphale tries again, glancing down at his bleach-bone knuckles, stark against the black of his strangled mug. “There are still a couple of those scrumptious apple tarts left. They won’t be fresh, of course, but they should still taste just as wonderful.”

Another sip. Crowley’s eyes follow the ripple pattern of the liquid as it settles.

“No,” he says, just the tip of his tongue darting out to catch at nothing. “I don’t think so. Thank you.”

“Ah. Well, more for-”

“Aziraphale?”

That one word, soft in the air between them, stops him dead in his tracks. He’d been in the middle of standing, but he abandons the action in an instant, sitting abruptly back down on the edge of the sofa, head snapping up so he can meet Crowley’s eyes.

“Actually, I thought- I thought I might take a nap.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale frowns. “Of course, my dear. I mean, you  _ did _ just wake up. But I suppose if you fall asleep now, you can still be awake in time for dinner. I was thinking we could-”

“No, angel. Not like-” Crowley shakes his head. Averts his eyes. Takes a deep breath. “I mean a  _ proper _ nap. You know…”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen. His heart plummets.

“Not like the nineteenth century?” he gasps. “Crowley, you  _ can’t _ -”

“Not so long as that, no,” Crowley says quickly. He still won’t look up. “Maybe just… a few months? No more than a year, certainly.”

Aziraphale thinks he might likely become actually, physically ill. He can feel the pesky sting of tears gathering at the corners of his eyes, threatening to bare his emotions out into the world. He holds tight to them, pushing against the flow, damming the tide.

“A  _ year _ ,” he repeats. It feels like he’s choking on the words. “What- What brought all this on, then?”

Crowley shrugs, and he doesn’t buy that gesture for a single second. He’s about to press harder for a proper answer when Crowley mutters something under his breath, too low for him to hear. Not over the rush of the heartbeat bouncing between his ears.

“I’m sorry, love, could you say that-?”

“I just thought-” Crowley says louder, sounding like it takes his every breath just to speak up. He’s clutching his coffee mug like a lifeline. “I-I thought you might like some space.”

Aziraphale’s heart sticks somewhere high in his throat.

“Space?” he asks, breathless, with a smile that radiates no joy. “Crowley. I don’t understand.”

Crowley’s face scrunches up in a manner that would be irresistibly charming if it weren’t for the tight furrow in his brow and the shine in his eye accompanying it. He sets his mug down on the side table next to his chair and instead drags his palms hard over the distressed knees of his jeans. 

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just bites at his lip. Aziraphale can’t seem to find any words of his own, either. They’re all stuck somewhere just beyond his reach, a muddled cacophony of answerless questions and prayers. And then, breaking through it all in the smallest voice he has ever heard, Crowley speaks.

“Have I  _ done _ something?”

Aziraphale wishes desperately that Crowley had sat next to him. His hands twitch to reach out and close the distance between them.

“My dear, what the  _ hell _ do you mean?”

Crowley startles, presumably at the expletive. It’s not like he hasn’t heard Aziraphale curse before - quite to the contrary, actually. It’s just that, admittedly, this seems like an unusual circumstance in which to do so, and Aziraphale hadn’t really planned to phrase the question in such a manner.

He doesn’t budge however. Just continues watching Crowley expectantly, unflinching, heart drumming painfully against his ribcage.

Crowley tosses his arms up half-heartedly, the gesture accompanied by a sigh.

“You  _ know _ ,” he huffs. And,  _ no _ , Aziraphale does  _ not _ know. “You’ve been, I don’t know,  _ distant _ . Recently. You didn’t even come to bed last night, not to mention all the other times you’ve just  _ left _ . In the middle of the night, without saying anything. Don’t think I didn’t notice. And it’s like you’re always- always  _ distracted _ .”

Aziraphale goes rigid. Now, he actually does reach out, although he can’t possibly close the distance from here.

“Crowley-”

But Crowley isn’t finished. He crosses one leg over the other and folds in on himself, his whole length coiling into a small, fragile-looking knot. His fingers pick restlessly at the fabric of his gray sweater.

“I can’t think of anything I’ve done. Which means, well. If it’s not that, then it must just be  _ me. _ ” He shrugs stiffly, lips pressing together in a tight smile. “We’ve been living together for almost a year now, and you almost never get to spend time alone anymore. So, I thought, if it’s  _ too much _ -”

“No!” Aziraphale gasps, clutching at his chest. He stands quickly, unable to bear the space between them for an instant longer, and crosses the floor in a handful of sharp strides, stopping just in front of Crowley’s chair. “ _ No _ , my dearest.” He reaches both hands out towards Crowley. “Come here. Please?”

Crowley hesitates, looking up at him through his eyelashes, so vulnerable it makes Aziraphale’s heart twist. After a moment he slowly, carefully, uncurls himself and takes the offered hands, using them to pull himself up so they’re standing just inches apart.

Aziraphale twists his wrist to weave his fingers through Crowley’s and squeezes tight.

“I am  _ so _ sorry,” he says, expression taut with a determination that hasn’t quite made its way through the knot in his throat. “That’s not it at  _ all _ . I love being with you, it’s just-  _ Oh _ , I’m afraid there’s been a terrible,  _ terrible _ misunderstanding, and it’s all my fault.”

“What do you mean?” Crowley asks, brow furrowing.

Aziraphale clears his throat. He can already feel the beginnings of a blush burning up the length of his neck.

“Well, it’s- Hmm; how do I put this?” He sucks in a deep breath. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to let you know- Well, that is- I mean the  _ truth _ is… Hmm. Well, the truth is that I would  _ very _ much like to have sex with you and I hadn’t figured out how best to tell you.”

Crowley stares at him, eyes going wide. He splutters out a series of unintelligible syllables followed by, “You- You’re  _ serious _ ?”

Aziraphale can’t help himself. He glances away with a huff.

“Of course I am. Do you have  _ any _ idea how tempting you are? At any moment of the day?”

Crowley barks out an incredulous laugh, pulling one of his hands free from Aziraphale’s so that he can drag it through his hair.

“ _ That’s _ what all of this has been about? That’s why you’ve been so- so  _ weird _ over the last few weeks? You want to have sex with me?” 

“Have I really been acting that strangely?” Aziraphale pouts.

“ _ Have you-? _ Angel. You nearly burned the house down. You danced with me.  _ Voluntarily _ .”

Aziraphale releases his hold on Crowley and instead clasps his own hands together in front of his stomach, leaning ever so slightly away. He sighs.

“Ah. I suppose I have been rather foolish.” 

“Yep.”

“Well, it’s not as though we ever talked about it,” he points out quietly, not quite able to hold Crowley’s gaze. “I didn’t know if you were even interested. If-If you wanted me, you know,  _ that _ way.”

A hand comes to rest against his cheek, gently tilting his head up until his eyes find Crowley’s. His expression is soft but equally serious. 

“Aziraphale, I want you in every single way it is conceivably possible to have you, and any other ways you can think of. But, more importantly, I want  _ you _ to want it.” He leans in close enough that his next words are no more than a hot murmur against the shell of Aziraphale’s ear. “All you had to do was ask.”

A shiver wracks the length of Aziraphale’s body and, this close, he’s almost certain Crowley can feel it. Crowley straightens up, leaning back just far enough so they’re face to face. His eyes flicker over Aziraphale’s expression with near-palpable intent.

“Right, then,” Aziraphale says, just a bit breathless. “Crowley, I would like very much for you to do a number of unangelic things to me.”

“Yes,” Crowley breathes. Without another word, his free hand wraps around the back of Aziraphale’s neck and he pulls him in for a kiss. Aziraphale surges forward, meeting him halfway.

His body reacts immediately, all of his pent up want bursting out of him to spark across his skin at every point of contact. He hears a foreign sound that he will only belatedly realize came from himself as he presses closer to Crowley. In response, Crowley trails his hand down Aziraphale's side, feather-light touch making him shudder, until it falls around the small of his back, keeping him in place. Close,  _ closer _ .

It's all Aziraphale can do to clutch the front of Crowley's sweater to keep himself from falling. 

He nips at Crowley's lips hungrily, fully aware that he's being rather demanding, although Crowley seems determined to hold himself back. He meets every prod of Aziraphale's tongue with soft kisses, countering his onslaught with the gentlest pressure. It's infuriating. 

With a huff that's half a growl, Aziraphale launches himself into it - rather a bit too eagerly, since he ends up smacking his upper lip into Crowley's nose.

Crowley jerks back with a little whine, hand flying up to cup his face. He snorts out a laugh, and then winces. 

“ _ Patience _ , angel. For hell's sake.”

Aziraphale cringes as he watches Crowley rub at the bridge of his nose.

“I'm sorry, my dear,” he says, smoothing down the front of his sweater in apology. “However, with all due respect, I think I've been quite patient enough.”

Crowley's hand falls away and the expression that replaces it is so tender and so sweet that Aziraphale wonders how it is he ever thought it possible across all these thousands of years that Crowley _ didn't _ love him. He reaches up to run a finger lightly down the sharp bridge of his nose, thinking healing thoughts. Crowley hums, sounding pleased.

“Fair enough,” he says, punctuated with a kiss against Aziraphale's cheekbone. He hesitates for a moment, and this close, Aziraphale can see the crimson blush pooling in the tips of his ears. “I just want to make this good for you.”

Aziraphale cups Crowley's face in his hands, thumbs stroking over his skin.

“Darling, you have never been anything  _ other _ than good to me. Exceptionally so.” He clasps Crowley's hand in one of his own and draws it to his lips, pressing them gently against his knuckles. “I trust you.”

Crowley blinks and then, with exceptional speed, he fists both hands in the front of Aziraphale's vest and backs him up against the arm of the sofa, reattaching their mouths with a brand new fervor that sends fire coursing through Aziraphale’s veins. He responds with equal enthusiasm, if not more, dragging Crowley as close as he possibly can. 

He wiggles backwards against the sofa, readjusting so that the arm of it rests more comfortably against the small of his back. It's just enough to put his thigh perfectly between Crowley's legs. The resulting gasp that falls from Crowley’s lips is drowned out almost entirely by his own. Experimentally, Aziraphale shifts against his hardness, and is delighted by the hiss that the movement elicits. 

_ “Angel,” _ Crowley groans, burying his face in the junction between Aziraphale's neck and shoulder. His tongue laves a hot stripe across the small patch of sensitive skin that's available to him and Aziraphale sucks in a sharp breath.

Crowley's hips cant forward, pinning him tighter against the sofa.

“My love,” he gasps out, incredibly satisfied with how ragged his voice sounds. “I think it might be best if we move this to the bedroom. Quickly.”

He can feel Crowley's nod against his shoulder and his affirmative hum vibrates through his skin. Still, he doesn't budge for a long series of moments. Not until Aziraphale drags a hand through his hair and he lifts his head, chasing the touch.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Ok.”

He backs away enough for Aziraphale to stand up straight but doesn't release him completely, keeping their hands tangled together as he takes his first steps towards the bedroom. 


	7. Chapter 7

As soon as they're through the door, Aziraphale is on him again, pulling ineffectually at his sweater. Crowley laughs into his mouth as they kiss, guiding him slowly backwards towards the bed. He wraps one hand around Aziraphale's wrist and pries him carefully away before using the other to gently push him back into a sit on the edge of the bed. Aziraphale goes, but not before stealing a last kiss. 

He watches, transfixed, as Crowley grabs the hem of his sweater in both hands and twists it over his head in one fluid motion, tossing it to the floor somewhere. His hands reach out of their own accord to run across the taut plane of Crowley's newly bare stomach.

“Gorgeous,” he whispers, throat dry.

It takes him a moment to realize that Crowley has gone stiff under his touch and, when he looks up, his face is nearly the same shade as his hair.

Aziraphale grins and, in a moment of boldness, leans forward to trail open-mouthed kisses over Crowley's torso, starting low and ending in the center of his chest.

_ “Aziraphale,” _ he gasps. It sounds like a prayer.

He drops down into Aziraphale’s lap, straddling his hips and grinding down into him. Aziraphale can already feel himself straining against his trousers. Crowley’s attention is dizzying. It’s not _ enough _.

He squirms, tugging at his bowtie and cursing his penchant for layers. His skin is practically burning under his clothes while Crowley sits well within arm’s reach, chest tantalizingly bare. He wants to feel every inch of him, skin to skin, as close as these corporeal forms can possibly be. He _ aches _ for it.

Crowley kisses him, and then, as if reading his mind, asks, “How do you want me, angel?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes, flushing at the question. As if this is the most scandalous part of the whole affair. “U-Um, well… What would you like?”

Crowley shakes his head. With a touch as gentle as a warm summer breeze, he pushes Aziraphale back against the bed. Aziraphale goes willingly, blown down by gale of Crowley’s radiant affection.

“This is about _ you,_” he insists, the words falling from his lips with an impossible softness. _ Love _ seeps off of him in waves, just as tangible and overwhelming as his hands on Aziraphale’s chest. “Whatever you want, angel. I’m all yours.”

Aziraphale strokes a hand over Crowley’s cheek, breathless. His too-human heart has never before felt quite so fragile; he thinks that if Crowley continues to carry on like this – expressing the full force of his endless love so openly, so honestly – it might entirely burst. Crowley catches Aziraphale’s wrist and draws his palm to his lips, pressing them right against his lifeline and breathing deep. It’s enough to break him. To shatter his pieces open from the inside out. To release everything that had been so tightly contained within for so many seemingly endless years.

“I want you inside me,” he says, all in a rush. “Please.”

_ “Anything.” _

Crowley’s weight disappears and Aziraphale groans at the loss of contact. He doesn’t get a moment to complain, though, because then Crowley is undoing the zipper of his jeans. He starts to peel them off, revealing the smooth stretch of his thighs inch by agonizingly slow inch, and Aziraphale can’t look away. He props himself up on his elbows to better watch the show Crowley is knowingly (if his infernal smirk is anything to go by) putting on for him. As wonderful as it is to see, he almost doesn’t have the patience for it.

Almost.

Crowley finishes removing the final layer between himself and the empty air and Aziraphale’s tongue darts out to wet his lips as he finally gets to drink in _ all _of him. It’s far from the first time he’s seen Crowley in the nude – six millennia has been more than enough time for them to become comfortable with one another, and (despite modern innovations in the art) Romans knew how to bathe like no one else. Not to mention their more recent and much more intimate attempt at sharing the experience.

However, _ unlike _ the last time or any of the others before, Crowley’s cock is fully erect, flushed and straining against his stomach. It’s a breathtaking sight. And it’s all for _ him_.

“Lie back,” Crowley commands, barely more than a grunt. “On the pillows.”

Aziraphale does as he's told without question, scooting himself up only a little awkwardly so his head is even with the plush assortment of pillows propped up against the headboard. He doesn't break eye contact with Crowley as he does so.

“Dearest?” he hums innocently, tugging at the front of his vest with one eyebrow raised in a silent question.

Crowley crawls over him and strokes his hand down the line of buttons. By the time he reaches the waistband of Aziraphale’s trousers, they’re gone. Not just the buttons, but the vest and shirt, as well. Every article of clothing he’d been wearing, down to his socks. He sucks in a breath at the sudden, unexpected feeling of being laid entirely bare.

“That’s cheating,” he accuses without a hint of genuine annoyance. 

“Demon,” Crowley says with a casualness that doesn’t match the ragged breath that follows. He trails light touches along the line of Aziraphale’s hip, making him shudder. “Kind of in the job description.”

“Well,” Aziraphale huffs, not bothering to even try hiding the fact that he’s visibly pouting. “You’d better do it properly next time.”

Crowley grins up at him, toothy and self-satisfied, and leans forward to steal a kiss.

“Next time,” he repeats against Aziraphale’s lips, no more than an awestruck murmur. It sounds like a promise.

He nibbles his way down Aziraphale’s neck, making him huff out a string of little pleased sounds. Aziraphale won’t admit it out loud, of course, but he’s starting to think his clothes being miracled away was the best course of action, after all. He’s currently rather glad that he has no collar to impede the scrape of teeth down to his collarbone.

His fingers itch to touch, to _ hold_, and before he can really think on it, he brings them up to card gently through Crowley’s hair, brushing it back from his forehead as to better see the shine of those golden eyes that he so loves.

Crowley glances up him, the corners of his mouth quirking up in a sweet smile. He raises a hand in offering and Aziraphale takes it readily, lacing their fingers together and squeezing gently. Crowley doesn’t stop his descent, dragging lips and tongue and teeth over the soft curves of Aziraphale’s stomach. He’s so _ close_; if he just keeps _ going _-

Aziraphale bites back a groan when Crowley raises his head, only relaxing when he feels Crowley’s free hand stroking against the outside of his hip.

“Aziraphale,” he says, and the weight of it makes Aziraphale’s eyes snap to his. “Is this alright? Can I-?”

“Yes.” His head bobs vigorously and he knows he sounds eager, but he can’t be brought to care. “Crowley, _ please_.”

“If you need me to stop, if there’s _ anything _ you don’t like, just say.” Aziraphale nods and Crowley squeezes at his hip, drawing his attention into focus. “Angel-”

“Yes, alright,” Aziraphale says. “I understand. I’ll say immediately, just, please, love- _ oh! _”

And then he isn’t saying much at all, because Crowley’s tongue is tracing a hot line up the underside of his cock and it’s like nothing he’s ever felt before. The muscles in his neck turn to liquid and his head drops back against the pillows.

He’s had his fair share of experience with the pleasures of the flesh over the millennia, sure, but only at his own hand. It doesn’t even begin to compare to _ this _. To the things that Crowley’s devilish tongue can do. Although he really shouldn’t have expected anything less from the Serpent of Eden.

“You’re _ beautiful,_” Crowley whispers, the words ghosting hotly over Aziraphale’s twitching length. “All of you.”

_ “Crowley,” _ Aziraphale says. Like a plea. Like a prayer.

Once more, that wicked tongue circles the tip of his cock, and then Crowley is swallowing him down. Not all at once, not quite. But nearly. 

“Oh, _ heavens,_” he chokes, now holding onto Crowley’s hand tight enough to keep himself corporeal.

Apparently taking his exclamation as encouragement (which it most certainly was) Crowley sinks the rest of the way down with surprising ease. As if his mouth had been made perfectly to hold the shape of Aziraphale’s cock.

And then, he hollows his cheeks, and Aziraphale reacts before he can think. The hand not crushing Crowley’s fingers beneath his own darts out, lightning fast, to fist itself into a handful of Crowley’s hair. And, despite the sturdy hand holding his hip, when he bucks up, he can feel the tip of his cock hit the back of Crowley’s throat. He freezes.

Immediately, he releases his grip on Crowley’s hair, propping himself up so he can look down at him. Crowley pulls off of Aziraphale’s cock with an obscene _ pop _, eyes blown wide with an uninterpretable expression.

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale asks all in one breath. “I’m _ so _ sorry, my dear, I didn’t-”

“No,” Crowley says dazedly. Upon noticing the drop of Aziraphale’s countenance, he quickly adds, “I-I mean, don’t apologize. It’s-” He stops to suck in a deep breath. His eyes are shining. “Do that again.”

Aziraphale hesitates. Well. That he _ hadn’t _ been expecting. Their hands are still bound together, a constant point of contact, although now it’s impossible to tell which of them is holding tighter. 

“Are you- Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Crowley answers quickly with a curt nod, biting at his lower lip. A second later, he hastily adds, “Unless- If you don’t want to-”

“It’s- It’s not that,” Aziraphale says, stopping the crease in his brow where it stands before it can get too much deeper. “It’s just… You’re sure you’re alright?”

Crowley’s expression softens and his thumb rubs soothing circles into line of Aziraphale’s hip.

“_More _ than alright.”

Aziraphale nods slowly, finally relaxing his death grip on Crowley’s hand. Slowly, he brings the fingers of his other hand back to stroke through Crowley’s soft hair, relishing the way he melts under the touch. 

“Well.” Aziraphale clears his throat. “That’s alright, then.”

Carefully, he relaxes back down into his nest of pillows, settling himself comfortably at just enough of an angle that he can still watch Crowley work. Crowley smiles and presses a tender kiss against his hipbone. 

It doesn’t take long for him to get back into it. In moments, he is back to work, his perfect lips wrapped around the full length of Aziraphale’s cock. Any lingering softness from their brief interlude is reversed in a matter of moments, and soon Aziraphale is panting once more, reduced to a trembling mess under Crowley’s attention. His grip on Crowley’s hair starts loose, but the moment Crowley’s hand shifts to trail teasingly down the inside of his thigh, it tightens.

He jerks his hips forward involuntarily, burying himself deep in the wonderful, wet heat of Crowley’s mouth. The answering groan that vibrates through the head of his cock nearly undoes him. Unable to hold back any longer, he begins to thrust in earnest, setting a steady pace that’s not too quick.

_ “Yes,” _ he gasps as he pulls hard at Crowley’s hair to drag him close and is rewarded with that delicious licking and sucking he has proven so well-versed in. “Oh, _ yes,_ my love. Just like that. You’re so _ good_.”

He doesn’t miss the way Crowley responds to his babbling praises, can feel the noises he makes like a bolt of lightning up his spine as he takes his pleasure. He strokes his fingers encouragingly through Crowley’s hair, breath coming in ragged pants. Heat pools low in his stomach, drawing energy from every part of his body, down to his bones. It’s overwhelming, pushing at his seams, ready to burst forth in a glorious release of ecstasy. 

It’s too much.

“Crowley,” he huffs, tugging him gently away. 

Crowley ceases immediately, pulling off and sitting back. His hand untangles from Aziraphale’s as they both retreat to his sides, but not before he wipes the back of one across his mouth. Aziraphale misses the contact the instant it’s gone.

Crowley opens his mouth to speak, a dozen questions buzzing in his still watery eyes, but Aziraphale doesn’t give him a chance to start.

“If you keep that up, I’m rather afraid this is going to be over before it truly starts,” he says in between catching his breath. 

“Right,” Crowley says, eyes flickering down to Aziraphale’s aching cock, which twitches under the attention. He licks his lips, and, really, that tongue should be _ outlawed_. “Ready, then?”

Aziraphale hesitates. Crowley’s expression softens and his head is already bobbing before he even starts to respond.

“Just a moment, perhaps?”

“Take all the time you need,” Crowley says, punctuated with a kiss.

Aziraphale hums into it, opening his mouth easily to allow entrance for Crowley’s tongue to explore with languid strokes, such a juxtaposition to it’s previous occupation.

“But not too long,” Aziraphale says against him.

Crowley chuckles, nipping gently at Aziraphale’s lower lip before he rises. His cock is still straining, flushed and attentive, against his stomach, but he doesn’t even spare a glance for himself. (Aziraphale, on the other hand, can’t seem to look anywhere else.) His hands roam back to Aziraphale’s thighs, slipping between them so he can ease them apart. He arranges himself comfortably between Aziraphale’s legs, guiding his knees to bend just so. One miraculously slick finger ghosts over his entrance, and he shivers, sucking in a breath.

Crowley’s voice is little more than a low murmur when he asks, “Have you ever…? Before-?”

Aziraphale flushes, picking absently at the bedspread.

“Only on my own,” he admits. Quickly, he adds, “And just a handful of times. Generally, I, er- I-I prefer to use my hand. In the more _ traditional _ way.”

“Really?” Crowley looks up, expression purely curious. “You haven’t even-? With a human?”

“A _ human__?”_ Aziraphale barks, incredulous. His nose wrinkles at the mere thought of it. “Why _ ever _ would I-? No, of course not! I’ve never done _ any _ such thing with a human.”

Crowley blinks up at him, hands stopping against his skin. His eyebrows creep into his hairline.

“Oh,” he says, a twinge of relief underlying his tone. “I see.”

“Actually, I figured _ you _ could… show me the ropes?”

He flashes a hopeful smile up at Crowley, hands fidgeting in front of his chest. Crowley, inexplicably, goes tense against him, ears burning as he twists his gaze away.

“Angel, I’ve never actually…” he says, quietly. He swallows hard enough for it to be audible.

_ “Never?” _ blurts Aziraphale, immediately regretting it when Crowley grimaces. “I-I mean, I’d just thought, with lust being a sin and all-

“Tempting doesn’t actually involve _ partaking_.” Crowley rolls his eyes. “I’ve- Twice. Three times?” His brow furrows. “Hard to remember. Like you said, with- with my hand, just to try it.”

A smile creeps onto Aziraphale’s face, warmth pooling in his chest that has nothing to do with Crowley’s hands on him. He reaches out, fingertips brushing over Crowley’s chest, just above his heart. He can feel the steady pulse of its beat beneath his touch; it’s a beautiful feeling, one that he’ll never tire of.

“Lovely,” he murmurs. Even he’s not sure exactly to what he’s referring. “We’ll do this together, then. Just as we’ve done everything else.”

Silently, Crowley nods. He turns his full attention back on what he’d previously teased at. His finger is a sweet, hot pressure caressing at Aziraphale’s entrance like one might pause before the doors to a temple, praying for permission to be let inside.

“Ready?” he asks, barely above a whisper.

Aziraphale settles back against the pillows, tilting to angle that’s both comfortable and allows him to watch unobstructed. He nods.

“Yes.”

“And you’ll tell me if it’s too much, if you need to stop; for _ anything _ at all-?”

“Yes, Crowley, _ please,_” Aziraphale huffs, edging towards a whine.

Hesitation vanishing, Crowley presses steadily into him, finally, _ finally _. He waits a moment for Aziraphale to adjust, and then starts to move in earnest. He’s so slow, so gentle, taking him apart on his slender, graceful fingers as he eases him open. By the time he’s up to two, Aziraphale is all but writhing against the sheets. The hand not currently buried deep inside him traces a soothing pattern across the plush curve of his stomach.

“_Relax,_ angel,” Crowley shushes. “I’ve got you.”

A third finger joins the first two and Crowley twists his hand just so. Aziraphale sees stars. Whole galaxies burst behind his eyelids. He cries out.

“I know. I know you do,” he says. “You always have. _ Oh! _ Crowley, _ please_. I _ need _ you.”

“In a moment, angel.” If possible, Crowley sounds even more wrecked than he does, want spilling forth from every note he speaks. His fingers brush deep inside of him again, painting sparks up the length of his spine.

Impatient, his hand snaps out to circle the wrist of Crowley’s unoccupied hand, holding tight.

_ “Now,” _ he insists, on the verge of begging. “You won’t hurt me. You _ can’t _ . Just- Just _ fuck me. _”

Crowley’s hand stops entirely and Aziraphale groans, hips grinding down to try and find that sweet pressure once more.

_ “Aziraphale!” _ he gasps. His scandalized tone is betrayed by the gleeful smile stretching his face.

Aziraphale glares down at him, although he’s distracted almost immediately by the sudden feeling of emptiness that washes over him when Crowley pulls out.

“Well?” he prompts, aiming for cross but missing by a mile. Crowley is practically _ glowing _ with the force of his affection. It bursts from him to saturate the air around them and fills Aziraphale’s lungs with his every breath. It’s contagious and Aziraphale can’t help the smile that turns his expression soft.

“You said whatever I want,” he reminds him.

“Anything.” Crowley says it like he has to wrench the word out of his throat. _ “Always.” _

He bends down until his body completely covers Aziraphale’s, their chests brushing as they kiss. He only pulls away to line himself up, and then he’s pushing in, stealing all the breath from Aziraphale’s lungs.

He hisses, nipping not so gently at Aziraphale’s collarbone. It doesn’t hurt, but a moment later he soothes his tongue over the spot in apology anyway as he waits for Aziraphale to adjust. His cock is thicker than his fingers had been and it’s a deliciously tight fit. He revels in the feeling, dizzy with the rush of it. 

It doesn’t take long for him to grow restless once more, shifting against Crowley to urge him on, to compel him deeper. Mercifully, he takes the hint and starts moving. 

Despite what Aziraphale had begged for, what he’s doing can’t really be called _ fucking _ by any definition of the word. It’s so much more than that. Crowley’s long, deep thrusts that delve as deep into him as they can go, making him tremble from toe to tip, are too slow, too sweet. Love sparks between them at every touch, every brush of lips and teeth against Aziraphale’s chest, his cheek, anywhere Crowley can reach.

Aziraphale chants his name on repeat like it’s the only word he’s ever known or ever will. Crowley gasps and groans in response, wordless sounds that mean, _ “Yes” _ that mean, _ “I’m here,” _ that mean, _ “I love you.” _

_ “Crowley,” _ Aziraphale growls, low in his throat. He rolls his hips forward in an ardent demand punctuated by, “Oh! _ Faster _ , darling, _ please _ . You’re so good to me- _ Ah _ . Yes, that’s _ wonderful_.”

Crowley acquiesces, of course he does. He’s never been any good at saying no, not to him, and Aziraphale knows it. He mouths sloppily at Aziraphale’s neck and pushes himself faster, harder, whining curses hot against his skin like the stringing phrases of a prayer. His hands hold vice-like to Aziraphale’s hips like he might never let go.

“Oh, my dear, I’m so close; _ don’t stop_,” Aziraphale says, perfectly manicured fingernails digging into Crowley’s back.

Crowley breathes, _ “Aziraphale.” _And then one skillful, clever hand wraps around the length of his cock and that’s it.

He comes with Crowley’s name on his lips and a shout of, “I love you. _ I love you._” And Crowley follows right behind, teeth sinking deliciously into the junction between Aziraphale’s neck and shoulder, hissing as he spills hot and eager inside him.

Aziraphale lays back, blinking down at where his hand cards absently through Crowley’s hair as the white-hot bliss subsides, leaving his body feeling like the more essential organs inside it have been replaced by jam. Having found his own release as well, Crowley pulls out and sinks against him, a pleasant, trembling weight atop his chest. He brushes barely-there kisses over the new bruise he’d bitten into Aziraphale’s neck. (A mark that Aziraphale is admittedly rather pleased with. He thinks he might have to wear lower collars for the next couple days.)

“I love you, too” Crowley murmurs into his chest, quiet enough that he almost misses it. It sends sparks searing through his skin, lighting up his every nerve ending almost as if he were about to climax again.

“You were absolutely _ wonderful _, darling,” Aziraphale praises, soothing a hand down the length of Crowley’s spine as he settles more comfortably against his chest. “Perfect in every way.”

Just as he starts to glance down at himself, thinking about how unpleasant the mess on his stomach is becoming, said mess disappears completely. He casts his eyes to where Crowley’s head is settled on his shoulder, face turned away, and feels a familiar, inevitable sense of fondness oozing from him. He presses a kiss to Crowley’s hair and settles back down against the bedspread.

A minute later, he sits up again abruptly with a loud, _ “Oh!” _

Crowley, who has been rather effectively disturbed by the sudden movement of his pillow, sounds appropriately disgruntled when he grumbles, “What now?”

“Oh, I just-” Aziraphale bites his lip. Crowley stares at him expectantly, concern written loudly across his face, even under the facade of his furrowed brow. “That is- Was it good for you, too?”

The exasperation in Crowley’s huff can’t outweigh the affection. Tension falls out of his shoulders as he raises a hand to cup Aziraphale’s cheek. He kisses him sweetly and, in case that wasn’t answer enough, asks, “Did I _ look _ like I wasn’t enjoying myself?”

“I suppose not,” Aziraphale says with a contented sigh, stealing yet another kiss. “I just wanted to hear you say it.”

Crowley’s arms snake around his shoulders as he readjusts into this new position, half draped over Aziraphale’s lap.

“Can’t believe we could have been doing this _ weeks _ ago.”

“Yes, well, I can’t believe you didn’t catch on!” Aziraphale says with a pout. “I wore _ lingerie,_ for heaven’s sake!”

“Yes,” Crowley says with a bit of a hiss at the end, tongue flicking out to wet his lips. “Whatever happened to that little number, hmm? You still have it?”

Aziraphale reels back; he really hadn’t expected _ that _ turn to the conversation. For a moment he fears he’s being made fun of before he realizes Crowley wouldn’t do that to him. Besides, one look at him reveals his eyes are plainly alight with interest, and _ oh_. Isn’t that something?

“Of course I do,” Aziraphale huffs, mock-offended. “That wasn’t cheap you know. I don’t know how humans are willing to spend _ that _ kind of money on so little fabric. It’s ludicrous.”

“Yes.” Crowley hums absently in agreement. “Well, at any rate. I think at some point I’d like to try taking that off you with my teeth. Not now, perhaps, but later.”

_ “Oh,” _ Aziraphale breathes. His face flushes but he doesn't even try to hide the grin that quirks at the corners of his mouth.

Still, he doesn't miss the way Crowley seems to hesitate, holding a new confession on his tongue. Before Aziraphale can ask into it, however, his brow furrows with determination and he speaks up for perhaps the first time this morning without being prompted.

“I'm serious though,” he says, trying to keep his tone light and failing somewhat miserably at pulling it off. “You could have just _ asked_. Instead of all this- this hullabaloo. You can ask me for _ anything. _ Anything at all.”

_ And I'll give it to you, _ goes unspoken. They both hear it anyway. 

But that's the problem, isn't it? That's half the reason Aziraphale _ hadn't _ just asked. He knows that's what Crowley does. He dares to ask all the right questions up until it comes to the point of giving himself away. _ That _ he will do freely, regardless of his own desires.

“You too, you know,” Aziraphale says quietly around the fist squeezing at his throat.

“What?”

Crowley pulls back just a little to frown at him, thankfully not far enough to remove his arms from where they're looped around Aziraphale's neck.

“If there's anything you want from me, dearest, just say the word.” 

Crowley blinks up at him with an expression of surprise that claws at his heart, the _ ridiculous _ demon. Doesn't he know?

No matter, Aziraphale thinks, he will say it as many times as he needs to for Crowley to understand.

With a new spark of determination urging him to action, Aziraphale traces his fingers down the length of Crowley's spine, stopping at the small of his back. His voice drops uncharacteristically low when he asks, “Is there? Anything you want from me?”

The effect is immediately and Aziraphale's lips twist into a giddy smirk. The tips of Crowley's ears go hot, followed by the rest of his face. (Thanks to his current state of undress, Aziraphale can also watch the way the flush seeps further down, dipping past his collarbone into his chest. And isn't _ that _ a sight.) Even more telling, however, is the way his cock twitches at whatever he must be thinking about. This close, Aziraphale can feel it against his hip, and a new thread of want curls low in his stomach.

“Well, I-I-” Crowley ducks his head. Unable to reach anything else from their current position, his fingers weave through the wispy hair at the nape of Aziraphale's neck, toying restlessly with soft curls. “There is- _ Hrk. _”

As much as Aziraphale wants to rush him, hurry him through his words, he remains silent. He can practically see Crowley's brain whirring to try and give voice to his thoughts. And if he nibbles on a too-warm earlobe and lets his hand wander down to _ innocently _ cup the swell of Crowley's ass, well, it's only a bit of encouragement.

Crowley jumps when Aziraphale gives a little squeeze but looks pleased nonetheless. He looks up again, a little bolder this time, and clears his throat. 

“I mean, when I thought about it, I usually imagined things, er- the other way around.” His hand holds a little tighter to the base of Aziraphale's skull, but he doesn't break eye contact. “If- If you have any interest, that is.”

Aziraphale's insides swirl with anticipatory heat at the mental image the admission provokes and he wets his lips. 

“Crowley,” he says slowly, voice low, “I think I would very much enjoy that.”

“Yeah?” Crowley asks, quirking an eyebrow. He finally sounds more interested than unsure and affection flutters in Aziraphale's chest.

_ “Yes.” _

He dips two fingers teasingly between Crowley's cheeks, delighting in the full body shudder that he can feel Crowley give against him.

_ “Oh,” _ he exhales, breathy and high-pitched. “You mean _ now.”_

Aziraphale tamps down his impatience, his other hand freezing where it had been tracing down the planes of Crowley's chest.

“Darling, if you're not ready right now, we can wait,” he says, holding Crowley's eyes, trying to get across just how serious he is. “I'm in no rush.”

“I'm ready,” Crowley blurts. Whether it's intentional or not, the way he shifts his weight just so presses the already half-hard line of his cock against Aziraphale's hip, further emphasizing his point. “Angel, I'm _ more _than ready.”

“Well then,” Aziraphale says with a pleased little wiggle. “Good.”

And then, before he can really even think about doing it, he’s lifting Crowley from his lap and turning to press him into the sheets so that he’s lying where Aziraphale had been just minutes ago, their positions successfully reversed. Crowley’s head _ thunks _ softly against the bed just shy of the pillows and he blinks up with wide, startled eyes, face growing steadily more crimson. 

As he tries to readjust, Aziraphale presses a smattering of kisses across his cheeks; with each one, he gets a taste of the heat radiating off of his skin. He drags his lips lower, tongue flicking against the length of Crowley’s abdomen, and is rewarded with the most exquisite whine escaping through the tight seal of Crowley’s lips as his hips twitch fruitlessly into the empty air between them.

Aziraphale pauses in his descent to glance up, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as he meets Crowley’s gaze.

“Please don’t hold yourself back, my dear,” he says, punctuated with a kiss against Crowley’s hip. “I want to hear you.”

_"Fuck,” _ Crowley says, gaping at him “_Aziraphale. _ You can’t just- just _ say _ things like that.”

Aziraphale flashes him a smirk that is decidedly the _ opposite _ of angelic. Rather than offer an answer to that through words, he sits back on his heels and pushes Crowley’s legs apart, hooking one knee over his shoulder. He goes easily, malleable beneath Aziraphale’s steady hands. _ This _part, Aziraphale knows. The times he’s done it to himself, the experience has been one that’s not easily forgotten. 

Taking an example from Crowley, he coats his fingers in lube with nothing more than a thought. It’s slick and not too cold, and he brushes one digit over Crowley’s entrance.

“If it’s too much, I’ll stop. Just say the word,” he murmurs, cognizant of the fact that this is, according to Crowley himself, his first time doing this.

“Don’t,” Crowley hisses. “Angel, _ don’t _ stop.”

Aziraphale has barely touched him yet, barely done anything other than kiss him, and already he’s fully hard, the flushed tip of his gorgeous cock bouncing against his stomach. It’s a spectacular feeling – the knowledge that he’s capable of wringing Crowley undone with little more than his words and his presence. It’s dangerous knowledge to have, he thinks.

Not that he can say much better of himself. Just observing his effect on Crowley has put him in a very similar state.

He eases his first finger in, diligently going slow to give Crowley time to adjust to the feeling. At the initial push forward, he tenses, but he’s relaxing a moment later after Aziraphale strokes a hand against the outside of his hip and shushes him softly.

From there, it’s easier going. With much less patience than Crowley had shown him, Aziraphale inserts his second finger and Crowley takes it with little more than a shudder. As much as Aziraphale wants to take his time, impatience wins out above all else. He’s waited far too long for this as is. Besides, he trusts Crowley to tell him if it’s too much, too fast and so far he hasn’t said anything.

A third finger presses in alongside the others and Crowley is _ so tight _ but Aziraphale kisses tenderly at the inside of his thigh and he sighs, pushing himself down deeper around Aziraphale’s fingers. A moment later, when said fingers crook at just the right angle, that sigh turns into a whimper. It’s a precious sound.

_ “Fuck,” _ Crowley gasps. One arm flails behind him to grip at the headboard for support. “Aziraphale. I- _ Heaven. _”

“You’re doing wonderfully, my dear,” Aziraphale hushes, leaning forward to taste the beautiful sounds falling from his lips. 

“Angel, _ please_.”

“Please _ what,_ darling?” Aziraphale’s teeth tease gently at his earlobe, “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Touch me,” Crowley hisses. His blunt, black-painted fingernails dig into the space between Aziraphale’s shoulderblades, holding on as though, if he doesn’t, he’ll float away. “Fuck me. Anything. For _ heaven’s sake_.”

The epithet rolls off his tongue with extra sibilance as his usually carefully maintained control melts away.

“In a moment,” Aziraphale says, his own voice ragged with want. “I want you to do something for me, first.”

_ “Anything.” _

“Good.” Aziraphale hums. He sits up, bracing his free hand against Crowley’s hip as he holds his gaze steady. “I want you to touch yourself. Can you do that for me?”

Crowley gapes soundlessly up at him, eyes wide and blinking. He doesn’t answer for a long moment and Aziraphale doesn’t move, doesn’t hardly dare breathe. Was that too much? He’s on the verge of taking it back when Crowley swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, and nods.

Slowly, almost tentatively, he trails a hand down his stomach until he’s palming at the base of his cock. His mouth falls open in a pretty _ O _ shape as he keens, a high, breathy sound that he stifles against his palm when he ducks his head. Aziraphale watches, mesmerized, unable to look away.

He reaches out and tugs Crowley’s hand from in front of his mouth, lacing their fingers together and squeezing. Crowley holds tight and his eyes flicker back to Aziraphale’s as he takes himself in his fist, pumping at a steady pace. He starts slow, but as his strokes begin to quicken he starts to squirm against Aziraphale’s fingers in a silent plea.

Aziraphale happily obliges, moving to the rhythm Crowey has set. He watches every twist, every pull with rapt attention, drinking in the emotions that flicker across his face.

“Beautiful,” he breathes. “You’re magnificent.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley gasps. “I _ can’t _ \- I need- _ Fuck me_.”

“Yes,” says Aziraphale. “_ Yes_. Of _ course. _”

He pulls his fingers out and Crowley groans at the loss. In a motion that’s almost too coordinated for his tension-filled limbs to have been able to pull off, Aziraphale lifts Crowley around his waist and effortlessly switches their positions so that he’s laying back against the pillows instead. Crowley gasps, blinking down from where he’s suddenly straddling Aziraphale’s hips.

“Is this alright?” Aziraphale asks, fingers fluttering against his cheek. “Can we-? Like this?”

“Yes,” Crowley answers, almost before the words have left Aziraphale’s mouth. He recoils as if he’s surprised himself. But then he’s nodding, head bobbing vigorously. “Yes. Just- _ please_.”

That’s all the encouragement Aziraphale needs. He braces his hands against Crowley’s hips while Crowley lines him up and, in tandem, they get their bodies to come together _ perfectly _. Crowley moans as he sinks down on Aziraphale’s cock in one smooth motion. He only stops when he has taken Aziraphale to the hilt, gasping as he stills to adjust to the feeling.

“Oh, _ hell,”_ Aziraphale swears. Crowley clenches around him and he can feel the movement of every muscle. It sears hot and heady through him, settling deep in his core. His hips twitch upward, seeking more, _ more_. Crowley hisses and Aziraphale’s heart clenches in his throat. “_Sorry_. I’m so sorry.”

“‘S fine,” Crowley grunts through his teeth, the line of his jaw tense.

“Take your time,” Aziraphale says, soothing his hands over the smooth expanse of Crowley’s thighs and forcing himself to hold back. “As long as you need.”

Crowley’s head is bent forward, red hair flopping in loose waves over his forehead, chest rising and falling with labored breaths. He is _ beautiful_. Aziraphale has never seen anything like him, and he never ceases to astound. He never wants to stop looking at him.

Crowley mumbles something that Aziraphale doesn’t quite catch. He presses his palms against the soft swell of Aziraphale’s stomach, readjusting his weight atop his thighs.

“What? Love, I didn’t catch-”

_ “Move,” _ Crowley says, voice cracking. He sounds desperately ruined, and there’s no possible way that Aziraphale can refuse.

He moves.

Crowley throws his head back, the column of his neck stretching taut towards the heavens. Aziraphale’s eyes follow every dip and pulse as sweet, sweet noises wring their way out of his throat.

They move together, Aziraphale doing his best to contribute, rocking his hips up even while it’s Crowley doing most of the work. He raises and lowers, fucking himself down on Aziraphale's cock with vigor. Aziraphale holds onto his hips for dear life, half a thought rattling through his brain that Crowley might just float away and that – if it were to happen – Aziraphale would gladly follow.

_ “I love you,” _ he chants between breaths, because he can’t say it enough. Until the end of time he will have never said it enough. “I _ do_. _ Crowley_. I love you.”

Crowley’s hips stutter an errant rhythm and then he’s coming with Aziraphale’s name on his tongue in a melody that’s holier than any celestial harmony. Aziraphale follows right behind, with him – _ always _ with him, spilling hot inside Crowley’s luscious warmth.

For a moment they both just stay there. As soon as Aziraphale can get his bearings again, he finds himself blinking up at Crowley, captivated by the hazy sunrise glow of his eyes blinking back. And then, Crowley is surging forward, bending without even removing himself from Aziraphale, to capture his lips in a kiss. The touch of his lips says everything that he sometimes has trouble communicating out loud. The outpouring of love through the movements of his mouth and his tongue is more staggering, more exhilarating than even the best orgasm. Aziraphale kisses him back desperately, hands tangling in his hair, holding him close in an apology for time wasted. A promise not to waste any more.

When they part, Crowley’s smile is brighter than the afternoon sun still peeking in slits through the windows. It shifts into a grimace a moment later when he winces, lifting himself from Aziraphale’s lap. This time it’s Aziraphale who clears their joint mess from their skin. Immediately after, he goes to wrap Crowley in his arms only to find that he is already halfway there and they meet in the middle, only staying upright thanks to the other’s hold.

Crowley buries his face in the junction between Aziraphale’s neck and shoulder, breathing deep against him and Aziraphale pets his hair, pressing his smile against the side of Crowley’s cheek.

“I take it that was good?” he asks. Crowley answers with something mumbled against his shoulder that sounds suspiciously like _ “fuck you.” _ Aziraphale decides, this once, to take the high road and not remind Crowley that he just had. Thoroughly. “Everything you imagined?”

Crowley turns his head just enough so that he can glance up. His hair is a rumpled mess and his cheek is squished against Aziraphale’s shoulder, but his eyes are honey-gold bright and there is a curl to his lips that Aziraphale wants nothing more than to taste. He lets himself do just that, coaxing Crowley forward so he can kiss him deep, uninterrupted.

“Better,” he answers, finally, with a hum against Aziraphale’s mouth. “_Much _ better. I can’t tell you how long-”

“I know.” Aziraphale’s stomach twists and he leans back to look into Crowley’s eyes. “I’m sorry it took so long for you to have me.” 

And he doesn’t just mean in this. He means in trust, in love, in the last six thousand years.

Crowley raises a hand to cup Aziraphale’s cheek. His thumb strokes over his skin, delicate and soft.

“I have you now,” he says. With a wonder like he still can’t quite believe it, akin to a child with every holiday. Never losing the magic no matter how many come to pass. Even now, a year after the beginning of the rest of their lives. “That’s all that matters.”

Aziraphale concedes with a soft sigh. He draws Crowley’s hand to his lips, humming against his knuckles. The knot in his chest unwinds and, for the moment, any lingering regrets disappear, whisked away into oblivion. How can he possibly hold onto them now? When he’s here? When everything is _ perfect _ . Crowley, and this bed they share, and this cottage. This life they’ve built – _ together _.

Crowley pulls his hand away and replaces it with his mouth, his warm life-breath, and the spark of his love against Aziraphale’s tongue.

When he pulls back, he’s smiling. His face glows with the light of the heavens.

“What would you say if I asked you to spend the day in bed?” Aziraphale murmurs, spidersilk delicate in the scant space between them.

_ “Yes.” _ Crowley says, his smile only growing ever brighter. And he kisses him again. “Always yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endless thanks to [humanshapedstress](http://humanshapedstress.tumblr.com) who cheerleaded me through most of this story and especially through posting these last chapters. I can't say it enough. ♡
> 
> Find me on [tumblr!](http://imperiousheiress.tumblr.com) My asks are always open (although I may be slow to answer.)


End file.
